


Her Little Secret, His Little Dream

by R_Clearwater



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dabbling in angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Series 1 Divergent, friends to something more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: "Mrs. Hughes," The head housemaid didn't quite stutter, but she definitely looked shaken from whatever it was that had happened. Clearly, there was a crisis of some kind, that much was obvious. However, until Elsie learned otherwise there was no use in acting as though the sky had fallen–– "It's Mr. Carson."
Relationships: Charles Carson/Elsie Hughes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. The Incident

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:** If Carson gets to have his own little dream in "The One With The Cinder", I think Mrs. Hughes gets a chance to have her own equivalent! In any case, thank you to chelsietx for inspiring the continuation of this little snippet! And, for fans of "This is Our Moment": that's still going strong, I just also had to post this at the same time.
> 
> **Warning:** Taking some liberties with the damage a person can suffer from falling and what impact it can have on memory. This is also **totally** **canon-divergent** post- **Series 1**! And, heads up –– there's a load of **fluff,** some **angst** , lots of **cheesiness,** and a ton of **indulgence** because this is one of my favorite concepts. And, finally, enjoy!

_The Incident_

Elsie Hughes had been whittling away at the details surrounding the next rotas, a tedious but necessary task, when a sharp knock sounded at her door. Distracted by the work before her, the housekeeper was oblivious to the slightly frantic manner of the knocking –– the hurried sound subtly indicating that the person announcing their presence was experiencing a bit of a crisis.

Her ignorance hadn't lasted for long.

For once that door was opened, once that ghastly pronouncement was made, there would be no going back.

"Anna?" The woman in question looked paler than a sheet, greeting the housekeeper with a wide-eyed stare. That in combination to the fact that the younger servant hadn't said a word prompted the Scot to devote her full attention to the matter at hand.

"Mrs. Hughes," The head housemaid didn't quite stutter, but she definitely looked shaken from whatever it was that had happened. Clearly, there was a crisis of some kind, that much was obvious. However, until Elsie learned otherwise there was no use in acting as though the sky had fallen–– "It's Mr. Carson."

At the sound of those three words, the housekeeper froze. Remained stuck to her seat as that phrase words tauntingly repeated itself. Couldn't do anything but detachedly stare at Anna as thousands of images, scenarios that ranged from concerning to heart-wrenching, sprang to mind. The blonde woman hadn't looked this panicked before –– an implication that Elsie Hughes did _not_ want to think about.

But, she wouldn't get an answer by idling standing by, now would she?

"Show me." Shoving back her terrified thoughts into the furthest corners of her mind, the housekeeper imperiously rose to her feet and followed the lady's maid toward the cellar without another word.

The wonderful thing about her profession was that it had taught her how to look as though she were fully in control, even when nothing could be further from the truth. The house could be on fire and she would still maintain an exquisite amount of control because of her training, because of her dedicated habits.

None of that training mattered now.

All that mattered was ascertaining what exactly was going on.

At first, in the dim lighting afforded to them, Elsie didn't know what she was supposed to be looking for. Suppose her colleague had managed to injure himself handling his Lordship's blasted wine? Suppose he was bleeding out on the floor, all due to a tricky step? Suppose––

_Elsie Hughes, that's quite enough of that!_ Mentally swatting away the worst case scenarios, the housekeeper silently regained her bearings as her eyes continued to adjust to the light.

Though, once her eyes adjusted, she almost wished they hadn't.

"Mr. Carson!" Racing to the bottom of the steps, the housekeeper unwillingly continued to take in the sight of the butler collapsed in an incredibly undignified heap. In this instance, dignity had little to do with the matter; she was far more focused on kneeling beside the man and confirming whether or not her dearest friend was still breathing.

Then and only then could she garner a clue as to what on earth happened.

"Mr. Carson," Elsie worriedly repeated, hands skimming over a recently frayed part of his uniform. Desperate to ascertain her friend's health, she tossed aside all the conventions that came with propriety. Instead, snaking two fingers under his collar, relief flooded the woman when she felt an existing, albeit weak, pulse. Foregoing decorum, the woman opted to instead clutch any reassurance she could by keeping her fingers right where they were.

"I think he's coming to, Mrs. Hughes," Anna whispered, understandably in shock over the matter. Luckily, her statement rang true: the butler was stirring under the housekeeper's touch. "I don't know how he came to be here, Mrs. Hughes. I only found him by accident and–– and I don't know how long he's been here."

Anna's fears sharply echoed about the cellar, reminding the two women that they were exceptionally out of their depth with this incident. Truly, it was hardly likely anyone in the house would have the capacity to properly handle this sort of thing. But, it was now a matter of reassuring the blonde servant that everything still had a chance for working out.

If only she believed that.

"It's all right, Anna." Truthfully, Elsie hardly felt like this situation was anything remotely close to "all right". Nevertheless, she didn't need the younger woman to panic any further. _And_ Mr. Carson was indeed coming back to them. Therefore, there wasn't a need to worry themselves until they unearthed the extent of this damage. So, as long as she managed to keep herself collected until Dr. Clarkson gave his inevitable diagnosis, this could all be taken care of.

"Mr. Carson?" The youngest servant in the room quietly inquired. This only prompted a groan, the man undoubtedly unused to being caught in such a position. _Yes, well,_ Elsie dryly thought to herself, _when he comes to, I'm sure he'll declare how abhorrent the whole situation is and how he is "perfectly fine" and ought to be left well alone._

Oh, and yes: that idea of his being "perfectly fine" was one she wouldn't believe for a second. Not until Dr. Clarkson checked him over and made sure that there really was nothing to worry about. And even then she wouldn't be letting him step down this way anytime soon, not if she could help it!

"Mr. Carson?" Anna repeated herself, unintentionally speaking on behalf of both the housekeeper and herself. Little did the head housemaid know, said housekeeper was currently unable to do more than continue to keep a tight hold on a dizzyingly inconsistent pulse –– worry etching itself further and further into her grasp.

Fortunately, the butler would give a response soon.

Unfortunately, said response would hardly be reassuring.

"Who?" The low rasp, an unusual sound for the man and one she never wanted to hear again, brought Elsie's focus back to life. Once again, she found herself shoving back any dreadful thoughts, determined to keep some sort of a grip on the situation.

"'Who', Mr. Carson?" The Scot questioned, unsure of what he meant. Anna, on the other hand, was settling for another, "Mr. Carson, are you all right?"

Judging from the occasional wincing that had sprung up ever since he'd stirred back to consciousness, the man was certainly not all right. But, there looked to be no blood and she couldn't see any signs that would indicate broken bones. In fact, the only issue was that–– was that––

The only real issue was that her dearest friend was gazing up at her in a manner quite atypical for him. He was even daring to take one of her hands into his, looking quite oblivious to the pain he was experiencing, and smiling up at her as though as though they were more than colleagues.

More than friends, even.

"Elsie," The man quietly began, as though uttering her Christian name was something of a habit. Then, having realized they were in front of a subordinate, the man abashedly smiled at the inadvertent slip. Yet he didn't relinquish his hold on her hand. Instead, his grip on tightened as he murmured a sheepish, "Mrs. Carson."

_Elsie?_ _ **Mrs. Carson?**_ The concept stunned her to the core, the housekeeper gaping at these terms of address. In all fifteen or so years of their knowing one another, she had nothing –– no understanding or realization –– with which to steady herself with when it came to this shocking conversation.

"Yes, Mr. Carson?" Her voice had risen a pitch or two, bewilderedly concluding this had to be some sort of dream. In a minute or two, she'd be waking up to another day as Downton's housekeeper with no cellars in sight. Surely that would be the case, what with the incredibly ludicrous happenings of the last few minutes? A butler did not faint only to reach for the hand of his respective housekeeper and refer to her as his _wife_.

So, what then, was going on?

Oblivious to the outside world, Elsie continued to stare at the man before her in astonishment, waiting for whatever he had to say next. What with his open smile and the tender stare he bestowed upon her, she was at a loss when it came to thinking as a whole. In all honesty the only thought coming to mind was the realization that they were in fact holding hands.

She didn't know if she would've preferred to wake up this very moment or to continue to remain by his side and–– and carry on holding his hand.

All she knew was that he was about to speak again. 

Opening his mouth to finish his thought, the woman found herself leaning in a little further to catch whatever was next. Though, whether it was a stroke of luck or not, the man fainted before he could get the rest of his statement out.

Sharply breathing out, still questioning every part of the last five minutes, Elsie kept one hand on his pulse and the other in his grasp, not daring to disturb him. She quickly scanned the man to make sure he was only asleep, adrenaline continuing to swirl around her veins as her worries began to churn into some vague form of relief. As far as she could tell, he was going to be okay. Clearly, something had happened –– how else could she explain what transpired? Nevertheless, whatever had happened to her friend, he was alive and would, hopefully, recover.

But he could hardly recover if there was no doctor to help, now could he?

"Anna, please go back upstairs and see about fetching Dr. Clarkson." The servant silently nodded, rising to her feet. "And, please, make no mentioning of what Mr. Carson said."

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes." Without another word, the younger woman quickly went back up the stairs. The housekeeper belatedly found herself relieved that it was Anna who had found the butler and not someone like, say, Thomas, for instance. _That_ would have made all of this even worse, if such a thing were possible.

As it stood, she still hadn't a clue as to what was next. Maintaining a gentle hold on the man, sensing that moving him wouldn't be a good idea until the doctor was here, she could only count down the seconds until help would arrive. That, and pray that this really was all some sort of dream.

Yes. A dream that would give way to reality soon enough. A fantasy that would reveal all was quite well with her friend. One that would prove that this foolishly daft utterance he made was only that of imagination.

After all, a dream would be infinitely preferable to whatever this was.

Or so she kept telling herself.


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Did I mention we're taking liberties again? Because we're absolutely taking liberties again.
> 
> Also, for "Ten Other Way" fans, a bit of this might look _very_ familiar…. And, additionally, **I will be sure to respond to all prior reviews for this story as soon as I can**. In other words, you should all be getting a response either in the next chapter (for guests) or via a PM before the next chapter is posted (for users).
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Romance is definitely not my speciality. Also, I don't own _Downton Abbey._ And, finally, did I mention liberties of all kinds are being taken?

_Sixteen Hours Prior_

"I'm afraid," Doctor Clarkson had come earlier to examine the butler of the house, having been called the second Mrs. Hughes and Anna had found Mr. Carson at the bottom of the cellar's stairs. However, that had been what now felt like ages ago. Now it was time for the good doctor to announce his diagnosis, much to the growing dread of the housekeeper and her employers. "That it looks to be a case of amnesia."

"'Amnesia'?" Lord Grantham demanded, not incredibly familiar with the term even if it did ring somewhat of a bell. Mrs. Hughes kept a sharp eye on the doctor despite this exclamation, having no desire to put any focus on watching the family in this moment.

Perhaps, had it been Lady Mary or someone else she had less fondness for, Elsie would be more determined to detachedly observe the proceedings as a whole. That way she could anticipate both the needs of her employers as well as the future usage of the staff in this instance. As it stood, there were only two people she cared about in this instance: the one who had fallen and the one who would be able to give her the information she needed.

Therefore, the good doctor was the only one who held and would continue to hold most of her focus for now.

"Simply put, Lord Grantham, Mr. Carson has temporarily lost his memories. Not _all_ of his memories, mind, but I'd estimate at least those of the last ten years."

The shock wasted no time in settling in and neither did the borderline-impertinent questions: "Is he expected to regain his memories or is this a permanent lost, Doctor?"

"Robert," Cora reprimanded the harsh words that unashamedly took to the air, even if she was wondering similarly. Dr. Clarkson hesitated at this, knowing that the answer he had was undesirable at best.

"There have been cases where the patient has recovered their memory; however, I cannot guarantee when or even if that'll happen." He neutrally informed them, doing his best to keep solemnity out of his tone.

Well, _that_ cheered the housekeeper up immensely.

And while this latest information would explain as to why Mr. Carson hadn't recognized Anna when he'd initially woken up, there was one other question it did not answer. That would be the question of why, upon stirring back into consciousness at the bottom of the steps, he had referred to the housekeeper of Downton as–– as––

As his _wife_.

"But, surely, this amnesia isn't all that!" "Dr. Clarkson, I refuse to believe that we will have to let go of Carson over this –– surely there's another way." "Does this mean that _Thomas_ will have to serve for the foreseeable future?"

Oh, she'd murder the lot of them.

_Present Time_

That conversation with the doctor had occurred several hours ago. After the discussion with the family was held, she had discreetly pulled the man aside to inform him of additional details pertaining to Mr. Carson's fall.

Details that most likely should _not_ be mentioned to the upstairs household anytime soon. Or, at the very least, details she had no desire to share anytime soon. If her fellow Scot thought otherwise, she would at least have to give some consideration to the idea.

Of course, by now she already knew his opinion….

_Fifteen Hours Prior_

"Mrs. Hughes, do you mean to tell me that Mr. Carson believes you to be his wife?"

The good doctor was gracious enough not to look as appalled by the revelation as she might've expected. Certainly his Lordship would have been gaping at the sound of that, most certainly in a mixture of incredulous shock. Her Ladyship may have even let her jaw drop a little at this, not necessarily as scandalized as her husband might've been but naturally shocked by the proclamation, nevertheless. Luckily, the doctor was the only individual in the room, so there was no need to worry about the family's reaction just yet.

"That is correct, Dr. Clarkson."

_And Heaven help us when it comes to what to do about_ _**that.** _

Because if the physician before her became convinced that that charade needed to continue, the housekeeper might just throttle him along with the rest of this wretched house.

_Present Time_

Elsie Hughes may have been loathe to admit it, but she couldn't deny it any longer:

She was stalling.

Without a shred of doubt, she was delaying her actions when it came to the words that she and the good doctor had exchanged

And, if she got her way, she would keep on stalling for at least another minute.

_Fifteen Hours Prior_

"I understand that this may make things a bit awkward between you and Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, but I'm not sure if it can be helped."

_Are you now?_ "I am sorry, Dr. Clarkson, but I am not sure as to what exactly you mean."

"Well," At least the man looked as uncomfortable as she felt, "If Mr. Carson does believe you to be his wife, it may be necessary to–– to––"

She wasn't going to be helping him out.

Not this time.

"Well," Dr. Clarkson started up again, finally starting to understand the disconcerting reality that lay before him. Nevertheless, he adamantly held to his belief, "We're not really sure as to what Mr. Carson remembers. And though I'd hate to put you in a tricky position, I'd also hate to risk delaying his recovery merely because it's a little… 'awkward'."

The fellow Scot was repeating himself, clinging to that silly word as though it were a shield against her growing irritation. In any case, the housekeeper had found something concerning in that last statement, something that was far more important than any shield.

"Dr. Clarkson, _why_ would this risk delaying his recovery?"

_Present Time_

Honestly, she was a grown woman and had been housekeeper for quite some time now. If opening that door had meant stopping a ghastly scandal from ensnaring the whole house, the door would have long since been opened.

But, no, the door remained firmly shut. Because there was no scandal to speak of, not yet at least.

And even though she was quite aware of the numerous tasks she had ahead of her, Elsie Hughes remained firmly convinced that stalling was the best course of action.

_Fifteen Hours Prior_

It had taken Dr. Clarkson quite some time to respond to her last question, but he eventually gave a tentative response, "With the trauma Mr. Carson has already experienced with his fall, any further distress might cause him to regress in his recovery. If any more pain befalls him now, those memories could become permanently lost."

That was indeed serious news. The idea of the butler never fully recovering from this was a concept she hadn't dared to consider. But, she needed further confirmation that this was the role she had to take on, that this was their only option, "And you truly believe this is the only way to guarantee his recovery?"

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Hughes, that nothing is a guarantee with these sorts of cases." Naturally. After all, when has this blasted house ever been that lucky? "But, yes, I really do believe that this will help increase his chances for a full recovery."

"And when Mr. Carson does recover?" Because she needed to believe this would work. And, if she believed that, she also had to consider the consequences of going along with this. She had to recognize that the disparaging consequences that came with this _solution_ were too numerous to count. "When his recovery ends in horror when he realizes what occurred? When he contemplates the scandal he will have inadvertently brought upon the house?"

"Better five minutes of scandal than a decade of life lost."

_Well, that line of reasoning's hardly melodramatic._ But then Elsie thought about those horrifying moments where it was unclear if her friend was breathing. That was painstaking recollection that was shortly followed by the reminder that there was no guarantee of a complete recovery, not in the truest sense of the word. That, if things had gone worse, she could have lost someone she held dearly to her heart.

It was a thought that had haunted her ever since yesterday. But, it wasn't the worst contemplation. What felt worse was thinking about how great the damage might've been to his recollections. Had the trauma taken too much of his memories away, had he _not_ recognized her at all–– it was a line of thought not worth thinking about, something she never wanted to consider.

"Besides," It seemed the doctor wasn't finished speaking, giving the housekeeper a chance to pull herself out of those dark thoughts, "I can only suppose you both will discreet enough _not_ to call attention to yourselves? And, thus, avoid any 'inadvertent' scandal?"

"You suppose correctly." Elsie sharply informed the man, refusing to show how flustered she felt about that last question. Though, with that sharp admission on her part, it was clear what she had to do next.

"So, I take it you've agreed to this, then?"

_My, my –– it's only now that I'm being asked?_ She thinly smiled at his question, knowing as well as he that this was not a legitimate inquiry. Still, it did require an official answer. And, so, an official answer he would get:

"I have."

_Present Day_

The housekeeper had been standing in front of the door for what felt like an age, even though it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds. None of the other servants currently roamed this section of the servants hall; everyone had been put to work several hours ago. Which is where she really ought to be. But it looked like her work was to be delayed this morning.

Not that the traitorous part of her minded in the slightest.

Said traitorous part of her mind proceeded to lift a hand to knock on the door and then had the gall to go through with the action, forcing her to open the wretched thing and finally take a step instead to greet Mr. Carson. Oh, why had she agreed to what had to be a disaster in the making? The housekeeper could only hope that the butler would've long since recovered his senses and that this charade wouldn't have to come to pass. Yes, that's exactly what would occur: she'd step in that door and he'd be his normal gruffy, curmudgeon of a self––

"Elsie! Dr. Clarkson had mentioned your dropping by today, but the more time went on the more I thought I'd dreamed the whole thing. But––" Said man exhaled in relief the moment she opened the door, sending her a sincere look of great fondness the further she stepped into the room. "But, I _knew_ it wasn't a dream."

At his words, she could almost believed that they really were married. At any rate, her heart was furiously beating away at his tone, thoughts of work temporarily gone. The sound of her Christian name had disarmed her shields, the resolution in his voice making her own personal concerns begin to crumble. The whole statement felt as soothing as a caress –– not that she'd know what _that_ felt like, mind –– and touched her heart as though it were all true.

It didn't help that this was the first time in almost a day she'd seen the man. That the last time they were together, she didn't know what on earth was going on or if he'd truly be all right. That all she had for assurance was an unsteady pulse that

"Mr. Car–– Charles," Blushing, never having this unusual pleasure before, she cast her thoughts back to her conversation with the doctor, recalling Dr. Clarkson's instructions.

_Fifteen Hours Prior_

"And what am I to call him? Somehow, 'Mr. Carson' seems inappropriate." This was less of a question and more of a quip, the intention being to convey how uncomfortable she was in the situation.

"I think we can agree that your Christian names can be spoken in private."

She inwardly bristled at this, unsure of how it would feel to speak as such. If they were servants of a lower status, if using Christian names were a natural part of the job, this part might be easier. But, that was not their relationship. Their roles were ones that had to be shrouded in formality, had to be walled up in every possible aspect.

And, until today, she never thought that would change.

Still, needing to prove how ridiculous this all was, the woman arched an eyebrow and went for the real question on her mind, "And if he expects me to perform duties befitting a–– a wife?"

The good doctor was kind enough to ignore her stumble in words, bemusedly fixing his gaze on the floor before focusing on her again: "Do only what you feel comfortable with, Mrs. Hughes. I have already informed him that, in an effort to fully recover, he is to refrain from overworking in _all_ capacities."

Well, _that_ did little to reassure her.

_Present Day_

"Charles," She repeated, ignoring the fact that it was already far too easy to say his name. "It's not a dream. And," Taking a step forward, continuing to breathe in the fact that he was far more alive and well than he was yesterday, "I'm grateful to see that you're all right."

It was all true. Because, if this experience taught her anything, it was that she held a great deal of fondness for her dearest friend –– a level of appreciation that would make his absence terribly painful. And the fact that he did remember her, that he believed them married, was certainly jarring, yes; however, to have any connection to him was something she felt no urge to relinquish, not now.

The man beamed appreciatively at this, flecks of concern tinting his demeanour, "And are you all right, Elsie? Is everything all right downstairs?"

The Scot hadn't been surprised that he wanted to know how the downstairs was running. That he had asked about her first had been far more shocking.

"Everything's perfectly fine downstairs. Thomas," Remembering that he wouldn't remember Thomas, she saved her complaints of the younger man for a later date and focused on the positives, "Has been stepping up, as well as O'Brien, Anna, and Mr. Bates. They all believe you to have a case of the flu, of course. But, truly, nothing has fallen apart in your absence."

The butler nodded without any real sustenance to the action, definitely blanking on every name –– all except for one, "O'Brien's still around after all this time?"

The housekeeper chuckled at this, satisfied to carry on talking about O'Brien even as he began to shift the topic back to his real priority: "But, none of that matters when my capable wife is at the helm. So, really, how are you, Elsie?"

Elsie gave a breathy chuckle, more of a fond huff than anything, unable to immediately answer the question. He sent her a knowing look, calmly holding out a hand and beckoning her to sit beside him on the bed. She unquestioningly took it, forgetting her initial concerns in lieu of having a more tangible confirmation he was really all right.

Thankfully, he recognized that she didn't want to talk about herself this time.

And, so, he took them down a different train of thought.

"Dr. Clarkson told me about the fall and the loss of memories." With those words, the conversation stepped onto a darker path, an unknown path. One that wasn't easy to bear even when he tried to reassure her, "But, I _am_ all right. It _is_ okay."

Elsie nodded, needing a moment to push back all of the fears that'd come to the surface. Heavens, at this rate, there'd be no pretending, not with the worries and realizations she'd felt. Of course, she'd been concerned if anyone she'd cared about had fallen like that –– Becky, for instance, would've had her lose all of her composure in a heartbeat.

"I know that now that I've seen you. But," But she hadn't at first. And the image of her friend collapsed in the cellar burned far more deeply than any proclamation that he was in fact okay. And it was _that_ image that led her to those painful thoughts. The ones that'd been stalking her mind for the last twelve hours, the ones that had kept her from any decent sort of sleep: "But suppose you weren't all right? Suppose you never get your memories back? Suppose the last ten years are _permanently_ lost to you, Charles?"

"Elsie, love," Her heart stilled at the term, only starting to beat again after his other hand reached out to cup her cheek and bring her gaze up from the floor. "We still have each other. Any fear that I may have goes away the moment I remember you. So, even if it never comes back, I'm still willing to keep going."

A strangely pleasant wave of bewilderment washed over her the more he spoke, something the woman never thought possible. And though her head craved to look away from those piercing eyes, to avoid witnessing his blindingly obvious love and affection, she stayed exactly where she was.

Though, if he kept looking at her like that, she'd have to change the subject.

"Charles," Blushing at the sound of his Christian name once again on her lips, feeling foolish for all these feelings currently distracting her, Elsie pressed on, "What exactly do you remember?"

"About the fall or the memories?"

Pleased that he wasn't questioning the shift in conversation, "Either. Both. Whichever comes to mind."

"All I remember from the fall," She curiously leaned forward, hoping to catch some sort of hint of what caused everything. Was it a loose step? Did he feel as though he'd been pushed? "Was seeing my beautiful wife by my side as I came to."

_Oh._

"She, being much smarter than I could ever hope to be, had the wisdom to address me much like she would've fifteen years ago. It all made sense when I realized there was someone else in the room. But, even still, with soft fingers resting on my neck and a kind hand taking hold of mine, I knew there was nothing to fear."

Elsie nodded for what felt like the twelfth time that hour, so unsure of what to say but once again so very touched by his words. Whatever else, knowing that her presence gave him a peace of mind, knowing that she probably meant as much to him as he did to her, that made a difference.

"Now, when it comes to _before_ the fall," The man paused, appearing to be caught in the midst of a sweet recollection. She quietly watched, rather intrigued to find out what had first come to mind. Would it be some sort of romantic gesture? A fervent moment shared behind a closed door?

"Darling. Love." The man eventually spoke those two words, causing Elsie to blink in confusion. Then, upon realizing that she hadn't a clue as to what he was referring to, "I remember you calling me both darling and love, depending on the occasion. And Charles, of course."

_My, my._ Those were terms she'd not given to anyone, not even Joe Burns. The farmer had never struck her as the darling type, the loving kind who'd look at her in this sort of gentle fashion, the tender sort who'd want to hold hands for the sake of it, someone who'd deeply touch her with words alone––

_Elsie May Hughes, for once in your life, kindly focus!_

Luckily, the butler was distracted enough with his own musings she didn't need to school her features or reassure him of anything. In fact, he was already beginning to add more to his previous statement, starting to paint more of this picture only he could see.

"When you were being serious or getting cross, you'd go straight back to 'Mr. Carson'." He chuckled, recalling something else, a cheeky tease of a memory from the sounds of that laugh, "When you were angry, there'd be no name of any kind. Only a look."

Elsie chuckled to herself, knowing which look he spoke of. She was well aware of _that_ particular glare. It was a facial expression she'd been practicing long before she'd started as head housemaid at Downton, a gaze that'd been brought out by long days in endless rain where the entire land seemed against her. And though it was a look that might've been born out of unpleasant circumstances, it comforted Elsie to hear it referenced. The reference brought her back to an even keel, reminded her that not everything had to change just because things –– or, rather, just because the butler –– had fallen over.

"And when you were pleased, when you were happy, you'd call me 'Charlie'."

Elsie froze at this softly spoken admission, her nearly relaxed manner beginning to slip into something a little tenser. There was a striking vulnerability she'd never heard in his voice, an apparent intimacy she'd never witnessed before. A simple, stark trust stood within those words, one that was already pushing their relationship in directions she couldn't possibly imagine.

_Charlie._ Even in her mind, there was a clear tenderness to the sound. One that spoke of a connection, a love, that was far too intimate for mere friends. There was an implication of openness in that name, of that vulnerability she'd never witnessed before today.

And–– and it _petrified_ her to recognize it.

Because he couldn't possibly mean any of it. This all had to be some sort of misunderstanding. The trauma must've distorted his reality, must've confused his feelings on the matter and fabricated this reality by mistake. She was flattered by everything, honestly. Flattered and confused and frankly still relieved that their last moment together hadn't been in that wretched cellar, and––

"Elsie, love?" He always did have a knack for shaking her out of her thoughts, whether he meant to or not. "What do you remember?"

"Oh, I don't think––" Dr. Clarkson's suggestion, to avoid any potentially probing questions via deflection, came to mind. But the longer she stared at the man before her, the longer she held Charles' gaze, the more she knew she wouldn't follow that particular suggestion.

Pausing, taking a moment to leave every disconcerting thought and shred of advice well behind, she told the truth:

"I remember our conversations. The late-night ones, when not a soul was around. The laughter, the arguments, the debate over if a housekeeper should always have the storage key," He snorted at this, prompting her to chuckle at the fact that, _of course, he remembers the endless battle of the storage key_.

It was only when she shifted on the mattress, finally realizing that she was sat right beside with their hands still entangled, that this entire situation caught up with her. That she realized this wasn't just another one of those chats in his pantry or her sitting room, that everything had changed between them.

And yet.

And yet, _had_ it changed?

Had it _really_ changed?

Elsie honestly couldn't tell. And with these sorts of implications, with all of these unanswered questions, she didn't know what was to be expected. She needed time to think it all through, to understand where their boundaries now laid and where she _wanted_ them to lay. Because she didn't dare walk down a path they'd never recover from if–– _when_ he got his life back. When the memories returned.

"Charles," His name felt so foreign on her lips but, strangely enough, so fitting. She couldn't explain it and she didn't really want to. Perhaps she was the one who was dreaming. And, perhaps, that's why it was turning out the way it did. She didn't think herself so foolish as to dream up something as far-fetched as this, but how could she possibly know until she woke up? "I can't stay for much longer."

Although his delight was already crumbling at the reminder, russet orbs dulling in enthusiasm as the words registered, the butler nodded in resigned agreement –– understanding the housekeeper's responsibilities.

"Of course. It's only to be expected in our world." The man paused, finally showing an ounce of hesitation, "If it really is the same world, that is."

Elsie gripped his hand at the unspoken question, knowing that this all had to be shocking for him. Even if he found an anchor within their relationship, even if the unknown had refrained from stealing everything from him, ten years was a long time.

Still, "The world hasn't changed that much in the last ten years, Charles." _Only in the last ten hours._ "Now, I really must get on."

Starting to let go of his hands and getting ready to rise to her feet, Elsie was perfectly fine with carrying on as normal.

That is, until yet another realization caught up with her.

He had already implied that, in his eyes, they were on rather intimate terms. And, though he hadn't revealed anything terribly improper, that implication undoubtedly meant that they did more than–– than–– than merely hold hands and the likes.

So, did that mean, contrary to what the doctor had told her, she would be expected to perform _all_ the duties of a wife?

And, if that were also true, _why_ did that no longer seem to be as much of an issue?

She had to be either losing her mind or dreaming up a storm, both of which seemed incredibly out of character for the woman. It was true that she was definitely not that farm girl from Argyll, not any longer. But, what kind of a housekeeper was she if foolish thoughts of romance were beginning to creep into her life? If the concept of being a wife was starting to weave itself around her, if the idea of "having it all" was sneaking into her thoughts?

"Is everything really all right, Elsie?"

Unable to decide what the man could possibly expect from her, unwilling to recall any of the instructions Dr. Clarkson might've bestowed upon her, she settled for looking at him and nothing else. Looking at every crevice of love sketched into his demeanour, observing every trace of feeling written across his face, seeing all of his thoughts for what they were:

A lovely dream that, if nothing else, he was clearly devoted to sharing with her in any capacity he could.

Fear dissipated, bringing her back to her spot on the mattress. Concern melted, a calm beginning to take over the beat of her heart. A most peculiar feeling flooded her, one that soothed away all thoughts. It was a sensation that enveloped her with sweet security, blanketing her with a serene trust, giving her the knowledge that she was exactly where she needed to be.

Moving completely instinctively, Elsie slowly brought a hand up to cup his cheek much like he'd done earlier. And, softly watching as the space between them fade away into sweet nothing, the woman calmly closed her eyes and contently brought her lips to his. She felt him gratefully reach out in turn, blissfully guiding her into an embrace.

When they finally parted, nothing had changed. No bombs had gone off, no shooting stars had struck them where they sat. There was no well-meaning advice to cling to, no awkward thoughts or niggling worries to avoid. Just the two of them remaining embraced, content to wade through these waters that felt so different but so very familiar.

"It is all right, Charlie,"

The words were breathless but calm, the sentiment ringing steady and true as she continued to let her heart speak. There'd be time to panic later, time to wonder about what-ifs and whys as well as anything else she wanted. But in this moment, in these precious seconds spent tucked away from the world, time was willing to stand still just for them.

"It really is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Initial Second Author's Note:** Ah, yes, the old "Surely it's his amnesia that's doing the talking and not him?" combined with the even older "Ah, yes. It is a fond love I feel for this person. That's the only reason why I freaked out when I didn't know what my future with them would be like".
> 
> **Not-So-Initial Second Author's Note:** Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, the ending to this chapter was not going to be anywhere near that romantic. And, truly, I totally get it if you lovely readers say "Whoa –– way too much way too soon! Please, slow down!"
> 
> It turned out the way it did because I was thinking of what it'd be to have that sort of experience: you're living in an era where amnesia is hardly understood, you just saw someone you deeply care about brush paths with what is clearly a brutal fate. Naturally, your thoughts are gonna be all over the place and, I'd like to think, instinct will kick in. Instinct that can't quite explain itself just yet, but instinct, nevertheless.
> 
> Now, of course, if it is too much too soon I'm perfectly content to scale back. I was initially intending on refraining from romance for at least a few chapters and am more than happy to return to my normal pace. Moreover, if it all helps to understand, memory loss is something I've been greatly impacted by –– so I want to do justice to _all_ the feelings it evokes: the good and the bad, the intense and the calm, so on and so forth.
> 
> In any case, I do hope you enjoyed this update and have a nice day!


	3. The Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank you all for your continued support with this story! I confess, the ending of that last chapter has changed the trajectory of this piece –– it's now going to be a tad more romantic and different than originally intended. And, for those who are concerned for Mrs. Hughes' sanity, I promise it'll all work out.
> 
> Also, as a heads up, this chapter will be more recovery-focused than romance-oriented, but we'll be back to all of that loveliness soon enough.
> 
> And speaking of romance: if it ever does wade into M-territory (which I really doubt, considering it's me), I'm more of a "fade to black" and less of a "Yup, we're gonna get _all_ of the details". Moreover, I'd certainly give a warning if that were to happen.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I definitely don't own _Downton Abbey._ And realism is certainly not the goal here with this story.

_Nine Hours Into The Next Day_

Why on earth did she do that? Why, in heaven's name, did she decide that a _kiss_ was the most appropriate action to take?

Although Mr. Carson hadn't been one to protest the action, although she herself had felt freer than she had in quite some time, it undoubtedly had to have been too much. Frankly, Elsie was astonished the shock of it hadn't triggered something. That, after breaking apart from that kiss and hearing everything was truly okay, he hadn't wound up recovering all of his memories and proceeding to indignantly splutter about the scandal of it all before demanding she never do it again.

But, Char–– _Mr. Carson,_ she quickly reminded herself, not daring to make that too much of a habit if she could help it –– hadn't changed after all of that. His memories hadn't come back, there hadn't been any protest of decorum. He had only continued to openly beam at her as she, still caught in whatever spell brought forth that kiss, warmly smiled at him before making her way out of the room.

Only once she was a few flights down, floating back down to her pantry, did reality rear its head again. Only then did the absurdity of it come crashing down, reminding her that –– when he did finally regain his memories –– there'd be no going back from this. That, once he regained his old life back, he'd surely come to his senses and understand that their friendship of fifteen years would have to change. Either they'd have to work through the inevitable awkwardness that would hang over them or they'd have to go their separate ways.

The worst part was that she could've avoided any romantic gestures by citing Dr. Clarkson's instructions to refrain from overworking. The doctor had informed her only fifteen hours prior that it was a perfectly feasible excuse if she needed deflect any sort of request she was uncomfortable with.

Except, there hadn't been any sort of request for intimacy or romance on his part. It had been her own doing. And, no, she apparently couldn't have settled for gently squeezing his hand or kissing his cheek or even his brow before departing. No, Elsie Hughes had to have the nerve to be foolish enough to kiss her friend right on the lips, as though they'd been indulging in such indecorous actions for years already.

_Well, according to the man,_ that traitorous part of her mind gleefully began to speak up for the third time in as many hours, _you_ _ **have**_ _been indulging in this for years._

And just where was all of this coming from? This sordid part of her mind, these bizarre thoughts and strange instincts and peculiar feelings, where have they been all of her life? She hadn't felt anything like this with Joe Burns nor any other man. If that'd been the case, service might not have won her over all those years ago.

_Right._ It was time to face the facts. Clearly she felt a love of sorts for the man. Certainly, there were feelings that were far deeper than she'd anticipated. But, that made sense after everything. She still didn't dare to go near that wretched cellar, never wanting any of those terrifying images to latch onto her mind anymore than they already did. It had to have been only natural for such feelings to arise after an incident like that.

And since the whole incident had struck Elsie a great more than the woman ever could have guessed, she could only suppose that yesterday's actions also made some sense. She wouldn't continue to jeopardize their friendship with any more of those decisions on her part. But, she wouldn't run away from it all in hopes that he'd recover on his own. She refused to do that to Mr. Carson, not after everything they'd been through already. Their work over the last fifteen years may not amount to much in the eyes of society, but it was their life. Their struggles, their triumphs, their work together.

Which is why, she was finally back in front of his door again.

Because there'd be no running away from this.

And, this time, she was fully ready to knock, tray balanced with one hand whilst the other was poised to announce her presence. Unlike yesterday, she remembered to bring up a tray this time.

Yesterday, with all of its mistakes and questions, also required a second visit to the man –– one prompted by a cook who couldn't believe the blessed housekeeper had forgotten to bring up a tray. That second visit, thankfully, had been far briefer than the first: not more than five seconds after dropping off the tray did they hear her name being called for from the women's corridor. And, when she opened the door to discover that Anna needed her help, a rarity in itself, Elsie knew she was being given a chance from the Lord himself to make a hasty escape this time around.

But, none of that mattered now.

If only because Mr. Carson wasn't the only one in the room.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, milord, Mr. Carson," In retrospect, Lord Grantham shouldn't have been one of the last persons she expected to see in the butler's room. But the housekeeper was wearing herself out far more than she anticipated. And finding herself stunned for the second time in two days, she detachedly questioned if she should set the tray down now or only once she came back, "I'll come back later––"

"It's quite all right, Mrs. Hughes," She inadvertently relaxed at the easy-going tone, oblivious to the curious look Mr. Carson was now sending her. "Carson here was just telling me that he does remember the tools of the trade."

_Does he now?_ Belatedly, Elsie had to wonder why he hadn't mentioned as such yesterday. Or, for that matter, why she hadn't pressed him on that front?

Oh, that's right. She'd been so surprised that Mr. Carson referred to her as "darling" and "love", so shocked that his little descriptions of their life together sounded quite fitting, she hadn't thought of anything else. She'd been thoroughly taken aback by the tenderness he bestowed upon her right from the start, the tenderness that had tossed any thoughts of service aside.

"So, if nothing else, once his 'flu' has finished its course, we'll have our butler back." Lord Grantham continued, oblivious to his housekeeper's musings, "Isn't it simply marvelous, Mrs. Hughes?"

"It is, milord." Except, if that was the case, did that mean they were already making progress on his memory? Or was this something that'd the butler had truly forgotten to mention? Would a few more hours bring a return back to everything? Or would there be more obstacles to overcome before all was back to what it was before?

But before she could say anything else, "Well, I must be getting on. I'll leave Mr. Carson in your capable hands, then."

Elsie nodded, proceeding to step further into the room, tray still firmly grasped in her hands. Without another word, the aristocrat made his departure –– the movement distracting enough she could mask a yawn. Then, remembering that it would do no good to delay what was undoubtedly the butler's first meal of the day, she proceeded to set the tray down within easy reach.

It was only once his Lordship was well out of sight, far past the chance of being within earshot, that she closed the door.

Normally, that door would remain open for any and all to see. Partially because it'd normally make no difference and mostly because that's how it was supposed to be. However, with the situation as it was, Elsie didn't feel comfortable keeping it open. Heaven knows they were lucky as it was that no one had been lurking about yesterday during that first visit. She'd been shocked enough to leave it wide open, something that was rather foolish when she took into consideration their–– their _actions_.

But, that was neither here nor there.

"What's this I hear about remembering the tools of the trade?" Internally debating about whether or not she should sit on the bed like yesterday or in the chair she'd completely forgotten about in the corner, the housekeeper settled for walking over to stand in between the two. That way, if her friend had indeed miraculously covered, she wouldn't embarrass him with any further hints of scandal. And, if he hadn't recovered... well, they'd crossed that bridge when they got there.

"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with his lordship, Elsie,"

_My, my._

Without a second thought, the woman found herself taking a spot on the bed, joining hands once again at the sight of his troubled face. Hearing her Christian name spoken so effortlessly told her that nothing had changed with his memories –– the man she knew would've never referred to her as such. However, hearing that he possibly lied to his Lordship of all people?

Well, _that_ was certainly different.

"Go on."

Charles looked to greatly appreciate her encouragement, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Fidgeting with the blanket, too caught up in his tale to pay any mind to the tray waiting for him, the man persisted in thinking over the matter. But, eventually, he began to quietly tell all:

"As you may remember, I was just starting out as a butler ten years ago." The woman nodded, knowing there was more and talking wouldn't encourage him, "Well, I'm afraid that's all I remember: starting out. No refinement of technique, no authentic understanding of the craft. Just starting out."

_Ah._ So, he remembered some of it, but not everything. "But, surely, you haven't lost everything."

"The problem is I don't know what I remember and what I've forgotten." It was the closest he'd gotten to grumbling in days. And, as worried as she was about this mess, Elsie couldn't help but bite back a smile at the sound, having missed her friend's need for exacting standards.

"Well, do you not suppose it'll come back to you when you see it all again?" The woman didn't really believe everything would come back at once, but she was willing to give the belief a go. Doctor Clarkson had said it was possible, though he, too, thought it highly unlikely. The phenomenon was still too new for any solid solutions or advice –– the doctor said he'd have to do further research before he could tell them anything more.

"Elsie, if being back in my room hardly does anything, why would being in my pantry make a difference?" The man wearily sighed, gazing about the space in dejection. "I know this is _supposed_ to be my bed, that this is _supposed_ to be my room, but it's not _mine_. I don't remember any of it, not really."

The woman's initial confidence dipped at this, not that there was a whole lot of it to begin with. This all reminded them for the umpteenth time that this was all unknown, that this was all something she never would've predicted and something she couldn't solve. But, it was only starting to truly hit how much of an unknown it was for the man before her. And for someone who relied upon his systems, who always clung to his traditions and his methods, to have almost all of it snatched away… she could hardly imagine what he was feeling.

All she knew was that she couldn't let her friend keep on suffering in his contemplations. The only thing they could do was manage the situation as best as they could.

"But, Charles," Bringing his attention back, thankful that he was looking back at her again and not at the floor, "It's been only two days. And that case Doctor Clarkson had spoken of had taken longer than that. But, they did eventually recover after some time."

"Elsie," Her heart broke a little at the frustration already apparent, the clear anxiety in his tone, "We don't have five months! We have five days at best before–– before I'll have to return. And then," Unwittingly fidgeting with the blanket, his Lordship will realize the truth, along with the rest of the family. "And then–– and then, it'll be obvious how much of a fool I really am."

_At times I wonder if I'm just..._ A tired wisp of recollection slipped across the mind of Charles Carson, something that sparked some sort of inherent shame. But, before he could clutch at the strand of memory, it faded into the abyss that seemed to be the last ten years. The abyss that had steadily grown more and more apparent these last two days –– much to his increasing regret.

"Charles Carson," The man looked back up to discover his beautiful wife determinedly staring at him, "You have far too much integrity and honour to ever be considered a fool. I've said it before and I'll say it again: you raise the tone of this household just by being part of it."

A flash of something struck him, the faint image of a stunning dark hat. A hat and pale, dainty flowers. Both images trailed into darkness before he had a chance to catch it, trailing alongside with sentiments he could no longer make out.

_Integrity._

_Honour._

_Tone._

"Charles?"

Whatever had been rising to the surface of his mind was gone.

"Charles, are you remembering something?"

He blinked, realizing that his wife was still in front of him –– his wife who had aged so beautifully in the last ten years, who was still by his side after all this time. Her very presence was changed by time, it was true. And yet it was the same woman he'd been with for fifteen years, the same one who had stayed by his side. And her presence only served to remind him how lucky he was, how important it was to treasure his time with her right now.

Because he had no guarantee of anything else.

"It had to have been imagination." Charles informed her, ignoring the residual flickers that drifted through his mind. Flickers wouldn't bring back any of those years, and flickers could hardly be counted upon.

She tried to mask her own disappointment, but he knew her too well.

Looking away, the man focused on the tray she'd brought up. And, sifting through the food at hand, nibbling at anything he could, another curious thought struck him –– one he'd been meaning to ask since yesterday.

"Do you know if Mrs. Patmore is still here, Elsie? Is she still the cook at Downton?"

She chuckled at this, the sight more pleasant than he could've imagined. Truly, it felt as though these were their first days together, as though they were finally discovering their life together and not simply carrying on with what they already knew.

And he, for one, was entirely grateful for the experience.

"Mrs. Patmore is still the cook at Downton, yes." Arching an eyebrow at him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes, "Don't tell me her cooking has inspired your memory?"

"Well, maybe a little." The truth was, he could barely recall the quality of Mrs. Patmore's cooking from ten years ago. But, if this is what the cook's quality was today –– and if teasing the matter brought out that delightful chuckle he'd been craving to hear –– Charles was content to stretch his imagination a little. "Maybe an apple crumble might help to jog everything?"

He chuckled at the fond glare being shot in his direction, "Oh, yes, I can just imagine that conversation: 'Mrs. Patmore, would you be so kind as to make an apple crumble just for Mr. Carson?' 'And why should I do that, Mrs. Hughes? Soup'll serve him just as well.'"

"'Well, Mrs. Patmore, if you give Mr. Carson the apple crumble'," The man quickly began to chime in, shamelessly attempting a terrible impersonation of his wife's brogue, "'I just might give you the one thing your heart desires: the storage key.'"

Snorting at the horrible accent, looking away, "That'll be the day––" Looking to realize something, pausing in her mirth to cautiously ask, the woman looking as though she dared not to believe something vital to all of this, "Charles, how do you know about the storage key?"

Apologetically smiling, sinking a little because he knew he was about to disappoint her, "Sorry, Elsie: it's a classic debate I've witnessed all throughout service. I know it's a disappointment to hear, but––"

"Please, we'll have no more of that," He weakly smiled at this insisting tone, knowing it rather well, "If anything, I should be the one for apologizing for prodding you with all of my questions. You'll no doubt tell me if anything comes back."

"Of course." Charles wouldn't dream of anything else, not when it came to this. He trusted her much too much to keep anything like that a secret.

Elsie nodded at this, watching her friend as he began to tuck back into the food. And, eyeing the food, using the distraction as a chance to disguise another yawn, she couldn't but fondly recall how he'd always complimented Mrs. Patmore's cooking over the years. How a nice taste of sherry went perfectly along with some of the leftover––

Sherry.

Wine.

The _ledger_.

"Charles," She'd forgotten herself, slipping back into this new habit. But, they had more important things to worry about than spilling Christian names across the air, "I can't even begin to imagine how it must feel to be here and remember nothing."

"I wouldn't say I remember _nothing_ ," The man gave her a very meaningful look, one that spoke indecorous volumes she had no right to hear more about, "Go on."

_Focus, Elsie._ Whatever fantasy his mind had concocted, she'd never believe it'd be about _her_. Perhaps an old flame that somehow got confused for her –– though the thought of Mr. Carson and an "old flame" hardly sounded right together.

"Elsie?"

Could she actually maintain focus or not?

"What are you thinking, love?"

_On with it then!_ "Well, you were found in the cellar, right?" Only once he nodded did she continue. "Well, suppose there was something that prompted that visit? Something involving the wine?"

"What good would it do to bring that up now, Elsie? Clearly I can't be relied upon to remember anything, now can I?"

Shaking her head at this wonderfully daft man, knowing that he was too scared and hurt to see her logic, the woman continued: "Suppose you only need a prompt to remember it all?"

She'd piqued his curiosity: "Don't tell me you're going to try to find whatever was that brought me down there. Elsie, do you know how many bottles of wine his Lordship stores in the cellar?"

"No, I don't need to know how many bottles of wine his Lordship stores."

" _Elsie,_ " Charles was getting desperate, her dear friend. "What exactly, then, do you intend to do?"

"Find your wine ledger." She stated, proud of herself for thinking it up. After all, he was the one who was obses–– passionate about the subject of wine, not her. That she was the one to think of this was only the icing on top. "If there's a discrepancy, you'll be able to spot them in a heartbeat and give us a possible reason as to why you'd been down there in the first place. _And_ , it'll be a good chance to try and prompt your memory."

Charles sent her another look, this one a mixture of exasperation and love, "I don't know if this'll work. But, I'm beginning to understand something: you're quite the plotter when you want to be, Elsie."

She almost smirked in response, still proud, "All the best women are, Charlie."

Grinning in response to the happiness now overtaking his smile, Charles watched in wonderment as his wife kissed his cheek before rising to her feet. He carried on enjoying it all, letting the sounds wash over him –– the chatelaine, the purposeful steps –– as she began to make her way to the door.

It had been those purposeful steps that reminded him of the other burden he carried.

"Elsie," The man loved every second they spent together, but there was a truth they had to face. "I can't keep stealing you away from the rest of the world, not if you're taking on both of our responsibilities."

He had noticed that, for all the beauty his wife carried, she still looked like she hadn't slept in days. Nor did it escape his attention that she tried to disguise a yawn _twice_ during this last conversation. He knew the days were longer for her than they'd probably been in quite a while, and that she really oughtn't slip away from her responsibilities for such long periods of time.

"Daft man," She fondly muttered to herself, a clear smile in her eyes even as she sent him a look. A look that held a love he thought he'd never find. "The world can have me back _after_ you've recovered."

And with that, she closed the door on a very happy man.

A man whose traitorous side of his brain fervently hoped he'd never recover.

_Eleven Hours Into That Same Next Day_

The worst part about finding the wine ledger was not maintaining her calm whilst doing so. That was difficult in light of the situation, but not impossible. It was also not about ensuring her demeanour didn't reveal how tantamount this may prove to be for Mr. Carson. Wth O'Brien and Thomas lurking about like vultures, she knew that she couldn't reveal anything about the butler's lack of memory.

No, none of that amounted to the hardest part. The hardest part was, in her opinion, discreetly fetching the ledger and bringing it all the way up to Mr. Carson's room undetected. For how could she be discreet when she'd spent the last forty minutes desperately trying to wipe that ridiculous smile off her face? There was no one in her sitting room, no windows for anyone to gaze into, which made it the perfect place to regain her bearings. But, no, every time she thought about Charlie–– Charles–– _Mr. Carson_ 's possible recovery, she couldn't help but smile to herself.

If the ledger –– an object that the butler prided himself over guarding, having felt privileged by its presence for years –– proved to prompt his memory to return, everything would be all right. Other than that kiss, the one she still thought about every thirty minutes or so, nothing salacious had occurred between them. There was no reason they couldn't carry on just as things were.

The real question was how to get to the ledger.

Or, more specifically, how to convincingly take an item that was obviously the butler's and carry it all the way back up without raising suspicion.

A wine ledger was no mere slip of paper to be slipped into her hands at a moment's notice. It required finesse to furtively bring it up the stairs and back to its rightful owner. And at this point in time, with his memory still lost for the foreseeable future, they didn't need to risk incurring any unwanted attention just yet.

So, how to go about it, successfully…

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Anna was gracious enough to at least knock before calling for her help this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second Author's Note:** So, maybe I had to slip in a cliff-hanger or two –– but, I do promise that the next chapter should be out this Friday! In any case, I hope you enjoyed this update and that you have a lovely day!


	4. The Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Here's Part Two of that little day, as promised! Enjoy!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** Remember, still don't own _Downton_ and definitely am not claiming to aim for realism here.

_Sixteen Hours Into That Same Next Day_

After several hours of managing incessant bickering, flour-spillage, crying kitchen maids as well as unnecessary smugness from _both_ Thomas and O'Brien, Elsie Hughes had been able to obtain some semblance of peace. It wasn't much peace in the grand scheme of her life as housekeeper, but it was something.

It was also, of course, that same moment that she garnered some quiet for herself that the woman remembered her mission to retrieve the wine ledger. Which meant that, instead of clutching that peace for a few more minutes, she concluded she needed to get another move on before disaster struck again.

Standing in front of the entrance to the butler's pantry, distractedly biting her lip and feeling unusually inept at her job, Elsie continued to debate the matter. She knew she'd only have a couple of seconds to decide which course of action to take –– that is, she'd only have a couple of seconds if she didn't want to draw attention to herself.

"I take it illness can't convince our butler to rest, eh?" Refusing to jump at the sound of Beryl Patmore sneaking up on her, the woman having left her alone hours ago, the housekeeper curtly turned around to face the unamused cook, "What does he want this time? The wine ledger? Or did he want to take a crack at polishing the silver? Because, as you know, the silver's in––"

"If you must know, Mrs. Patmore," She didn't know why she was sharing such information with the woman; they were hardly friends. Perhaps it was because she was severely sleep-deprived, having collected maybe three hours of genuine rest in the last two days. Or, maybe, it was due to the fact that Charles Carson remembered Beryl Patmore and that counted for something in her foolish mind. Either way, she found herself sharing this scrap of information as though it were the storage cupboard key, "It's the ledger."

Mind, if it were the equivalent of handing over the key to the storage cupboard, she wouldn't have said anything about the ledger for _centuries_.

"Well, that'll distract him from the silver at least." The redhead retorted, "And I suppose you know where it all is, then, his ledger?"

Oh, she was beginning to lose her patience.

"Why else would I be fetching it, Mrs. Patmore?" Putting a hand on the pantry's door, she gave a pointed look to the cook to send the woman on her way. Once Elsie realized she needed no legitimate excuse to escape any of this conversation, not really having the capacity for idle chit-chat after remembering everything she needed to do, the housekeeper was ready to be left well alone.

"It is interesting, though," _And what is interesting_ _ **now**_ _, Mrs. Patmore?_ "He's not supposed to be working at all and you're still content to fetch him his precious wine journal. But when I need that key to keep this house alive, when I am the only reason any food here is made practically to perfection, _I_ don't get––"

"Mrs. Patmore," So much for not causing a scene. Gripping the door knob with the other hand, growing desperate for a chance to maneuver herself out of this irritating scene, "I'll kindly remind you that we've already talked about this before. Today, in fact, as you no doubt remember."

"Oh, sure, but––" _No, Mrs. Patmore, there'll be no more fighting about that wretched key today. Not if I can help it._

  
Tersely opening the door, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Without another word, the housekeeper entered the pantry –– intentionally ignoring the disbelieving proclamations of the cook. It didn't matter if Beryl Patmore remained stuck to her spot outside, it didn't matter if the woman protested to his Lordship and demanded the housekeeper be sacked. Elsie was unwilling to remain in that unnecessary situation any longer, having no need to be badgered anymore today.

Shutting the door behind her, relief slamming up against her the second she was alone, it was with a sense of renewed exhaustion that Elsie realized she was. Stiffening a little at the sight before her, heaving out another sigh of confusion at the mess of emotions she'd been overtaken with these last few days, the woman closed her eyes and leaned against the frame of the door.

Things had been so close to being _not_ okay.

Things had been so terribly, terribly close to being anything but okay.

And, yes, they were indeed okay. And, yes, she was slowly becoming a broken record for some time now, overwhelmed by what the world had brought her.

That didn't mean the world would be slowing down anytime soon. Nor did that mean she could linger in this state of worn existence for much longer.

Still, before she could do anything else, Elsie Hughes needed at least one moment to breathe.

Having not been here since before the fall, having had no interest in taking one foot inside this room ever since she ventured down into that cellar, the woman needed a moment to collect herself. The sight of everything in the room being untouched, having been left alone for as long as the downstairs could manage it, was enough to remind her just how close they'd been to another life. A life where her friend could have been lost to them, where she'd be forced to set aside fifteen years of love and friendship as though it were nothing.

She couldn't be lost to those thoughts, not again. They could snatch away her resolve to remain centered in about six hours or so, after she finally retired for the night. They could steal the little sleep she could afford _after_ she got an answer about the only thing she cared about: if this ledger really could help Charles regain any bit of his memory.

Right now, she needed to take another step forward, a step in the direction where they continued to try their luck within this unknown. As dramatic as it seemed –– because, frankly, she felt as though she were living in a novel these days –– this was the only line of thinking that kept her going.

_Though, I don't suppose actually fetching the blasted thing would help, now would it?_

Thinly smiling at her sardonicism, Elsie refrained from shuddering at the sight of the ledger waiting for her in the center of his table. It looked as though the item really had been the cause of his fall –– seeing as how it'd been left sat on his desk for two days.

Meticulously closed, the journal calmly awaited her, looking to be ready to be taken up all those flights of stairs. Softly sighing to herself at the thought that this might be it, this might be enough to change _something_ , the housekeeper carefully lifted the book up and looked it over for any hints of what might've happened. If she'd had the time, she might've leafed through the pages, scouring the records for any proper indications of what might've piqued Mr. Carson's interest.

She didn't have the time.

She could only hope that, in the process of ferrying that ledger to its rightful owner, she wouldn't be interrupted yet again. Hopefully, if the woman maintained a terse step and a self-important attitude throughout the house, nobody would dare to distract her from her mission.

After all, an occasionally wise man once informed her that it didn't always what was being carried about or managed. Typically, what mattered more was the manner of presentation.

Or, as he would've put it, the style.

_Sixteen-and-a-Half Hours Into That Same Next Day_

Elsie had managed to bring the records all the way up into his room, barely remembering to politely knock in case there any other unexpected guests in the room. But now, five minutes after making her way up and handing the book over, she found herself somewhat impatiently waiting for an answer –– her curiosity fervently frothing into a tense suspense.

"Well?" _Is it or isn't it helping?_

_Are we getting anywhere or has this been an exercise in futility?_

The woman did recognize that she wasn't being fair to her friend when it came to prodding him for an answer so quickly. She did understand that they'd possibly get further if she maintained a little more patience. However, on the way up, it became apparent that there'd be more of a mess downstairs for her to clean up –– both of the physical and metaphorical variety. So, she knew she only had another few minutes at best, something that was pushing her to obtain some sort of answer.

"I'm sorry, Elsie," Refusing to mentally curse at his words, figuring that Charles meant nothing was coming forth at the sight of this ledger, she was surprised to hear, "I just can't tell."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't––" Looking to be incredibly frustrated with himself, "I can't tell. I need more time."

"Of course," Standing in the doorway, wanting something more to do but being equally unsure as to where her place laid in this situation. "I'll come back later."

_And,_ Elsie's mind began to tiredly think of something to say, blanking when it came to offering a sentiment of some kind. Something that frustrated her immensely, seeing as how the woman prided herself on being able to offer hopeful sentiments and words of wisdom, no matter the situation.

"'And', Elsie?"

She really was losing her touch if she hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud.

"And," The woman repeated, speaking the first words that came to mind, "And whether or not this works, we'll keep at it, Charles. We've no need to give up, not anytime soon."

He nodded to himself, taking the time to look up from the ledger and straight into her eyes.

"Do you mean that, Elsie?"

Pausing a moment, letting the stillness of the moment bring her some form of calm, she knew in her gut what her answer was:

"I do."

_Seventeen Hours Into That Same Day_

"Anna? Is everything all right?"

Elsie had once again been caught off-guard whilst handling the next round of rotas, a task that felt monumentally disconcerting in light of the blonde's sudden appearance. Praying that they were not in some sort of strange loop of time –– something out of an H.G. Wells novel, no doubt –– the housekeeper settled for letting the younger woman come in and inform her of whatever was the matter.

But, apparently, there was nothing to be concerned about.

"Everything's all right, Mrs. Hughes. I was just wondering," Stepping into the room, gently closing the door behind her, Anna looked right at the housekeeper as she spoke her piece, "I was just wondering if Mr. Carson had recovered at all."

Inwardly sighing for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, fully aware that if anyone had discovered how easy it'd be to eavesdrop on her sitting room this entire secret could be discovered. That, much as she would like to elaborate for Anna, being able to guess how concerned the woman really was, this was not the place to do so, "I'm afraid he hasn't fully recovered, no."

"But, he's showing signs of recovery?"

_If by signs you mean moments where he looks as though he's nowhere on earth, too caught up in some sort of memory to know what reality is, then yes._

"Anna," Somehow, the housekeeper didn't think sharing her candid opinion on the matter would be the best course of action, "Even if Mr. Carson didn't show signs of recovery, do you think that'd stop the man from returning to work?"

Elsie smiled faintly as her subordinate snorted at this, the Scot relieved that her word-choice wasn't being questioned. Heaven only knew what her response would be if Anna had paid careful attention to what was being said.

"I suppose not." The younger servant eventually conceded, "Well, thank you for letting me know, Mrs. Hughes. Please tell Mr. Carson we all wish him a speedy recovery."

"I certainly will."

If only wishing ever guaranteed anything.

_Eighteen Hours Into That Same Day_

Elsie had crept up the stairs only when she'd confirmed that the on-going preparations for the dinner service would sufficiently distract everyone, not needing any sort of suspicion to arise with her repeated visits to the butler. After she was assured of complete discretion, the woman set about furtively knocking on the door before opening it. Quickly stepping into the room, she took her now customary spot of standing between the bed and the armchair –– not sure how much longer she could remain here before some sort of disaster struck the downstairs again.

By this point, she didn't need to ask about whether or not he remembered anything. The fact that Charles continued to fervently peruse the papers in the fading sunlight –– no longer fixated on the writing itself, but the journal as a whole –– told her what his response would be.

"Nothing."

It was a desperately weary confession, one that held much more pain than she was used to hearing from the man. And in the shame that filled the spaces of it, she quietly continued to listen to his explanation, "I understand everything that's written here, I recognize it all to be my handwriting, and _still_ there is nothing familiar about it. No memories, no sparks, no hats, nothing."

Her heart fell a little further at that, so bewildered and worn down and unsure of itself. The world felt a little colder at his statement, a little more hopeless.

Still, something triggered her curiosity:

"Hats, Charles?"

He stilled at the question, avoiding her gaze by keeping his eyes glued to those records.

"It's nothing, Elsie. Just a foolish figment of imagination unworthy of mention." She frowned, knowing what that self-berating tone of his meant: the man was in a mood to punish himself for something out of his control and nothing would change that. "Right. I need to keep looking this over. I need to go through every page and see if there's _something_ of value."

"How can I help?" Surely there had to be some way she could be of assistance, something she could do in order to assist in this matter. Even if it meant going down into that cellar again, seeing if there looked to be anything out of order, she was up for the job.

"You can help by getting some rest –– I've a feeling you've not slept in days." Elsie glared at Charles, not in the mood to rest anytime soon. "But, since I also know that asking you to do that would be a mistake on my part, my only request is that you continue to help ensure tonight's dinner service is as smooth as it can be."

"Of course." Knowing that this was his way of asking to be left alone, that this was the best time to make her departure, she began to take her leave. But, not before promising him one thing, "I will be back later tonight, Charles."

"Of that, Elsie, I'm sure." She watched as he managed a small smile, noticing discouragement continuing to taint whatever happiness had once been in his eyes these last few days. With that understanding came another, one that no longer surprised her:

The woman was beginning to realize that she'd do almost anything to bring that happiness.

_Twenty-Three Hours Into That Same Next Day_

Only once everyone else had retired to bed did Charles Carson hear the familiar footsteps of his wife stealthily approach his door. The wine ledger sat indifferently in his lap, disenchantment having long since stopped him in his tracks even though the pages remained incessantly open. Flipping through it for the last several hours yielded nothing of worth, only numbers dictating Downton's stock. Numbers he may have once prided himself on understanding, numbers that might've brought him great pride before, but numbers that now seemed irrelevant in the grand scheme of life.

"I'm sorry, Elsie," Charles dejectedly muttered again, looking as far away from the door as possible, not wanting to see her look as disappointed as he felt. "I'm so sorry I couldn't remember anything."

"It's quite all right, Charles," The warmth in her words, the optimism that peeked through the rays of exhaustion, had him softly smile to himself –– his eyes still fixed as far from her as possible even as she pushed aside his curtains. She seemed intent on letting a little more light into the room before approaching her customary spot in the room. Either way, he didn't want any more light shedding itself on the matter: he couldn't face reality yet, didn't want to acknowledge that all of this was far more than he'd ever imagined. "Shall I have a look at it, then?"

The man barely had time to respond to her inquiry, the weight of the ledger being lifted from his lap as she took over the search. Taking a seat in the armchair beside his bed, he could hear the sound of her breath catch itself as the comfort of the chair momentarily overtook her. But that comfort hardly deterred her from cracking the journal open and skimming the pages for the dates in question.

Well, she was content to answer her own question, wasn't she?

Strangely enough, he hardly minded.

"There's enough moonlight we don't need the lamp. And while I may not know what exactly happened, I know how to spot a discrepancy or two. Of course, you could have been just trying to decide a selection back then, but _why_ would you have done that when..."

It was at this point that Charles, who had been poised to speak on the futility of the subject, took a mental step back and–– and realized what the woman was wearing.

It was a conservative outfit, the nightgown ensuring as much decorum as such attire could. Yet it was far more intimate than anything he could recall seeing her in before. Mind, he couldn't actually remember much from their time together. Snippets of conversation, blurred moments that stretched into that wretched abyss, nothing concrete. Worst still, he couldn't even recall their wedding, let alone ever getting any rings, although he was sure everything –– however it turned out –– had been a wonderful affair.

In any case, if he couldn't recall any of that, it only meant that he treasured seeing her like this. Getting a glimpse of her her as his wife, not the infamous housekeeper of Downton. And because he treasured seeing her like this, he was as enamoured with making sure she took care of herself.

Which meant he had to at least try to get her to go to sleep instead of staying up all night with him.

So, after a minute, the man decided to speak up:

"Elsie,"

"Relax, love," Giving a small smile at the unusual word-choice, he could now see how immersed she was in the ledger. "I'll only be a minute."

Watching her sit, the moonlight sketching out some of the finer details normally hidden in the light of day, he couldn't help but feel like the luckiest man on earth. There was still a horrid cloud surrounding him, a familiar abyss of emptiness that lurked just out of sight. But, she was here and determined to stay behind his side, and––

And already fighting back her third yawn.

"Elsie, darling," The woman wouldn't move from her spot, sheer stubbornness supporting her alone, no doubt. So, he knew he had to change tactics, "Maybe this time I'll remember something. Why don't we look it over together?"

"Hmm?" Oh, the woman was clearly knackered. Charles knew he couldn't say as such, not if he wanted to remain a happily married man. But he didn't want her to overwork herself to the point of collapse.

"I think I might remember something this time around," He dutifully repeated, "Shall we look over it together?"

"Oh," Now it was his turn to move before she could say another word, adjusting himself so that she didn't have to move from the chair to share the records. With just enough space to balance the ledger between the two of them, he could help her share the burden of looking this over, "Oh, I suppose that makes sense."

Charles knew there wasn't much of a chance of his remembering anything tonight –– not after everything they'd gone through today.

But the goal of this was less about recalling anything and more about taking care of his wife.

Said wife was already starting to droop a little in posture, her momentum fading further now that she wasn't looking over the book alone. After a moment, Charles tested his luck by slipping the records a little out of her grasp. When she looked to be hardly cognizant of the action, that only confirmed how alert she truly was –– telling him that he'd incur no wrath nor protest if he tried to set the journal down on the floor in-between the bed and the nightstand.

Normally, he'd never dream of handling any of Downton's records in such a fashion. But, after the lack of resolution the ledger provided, Charles felt unusually satisfied with this course of action. He had to truly be losing his mind if this nearly rebellious act seemed acceptable, but the action really didn't bother him half as much as it might've.

"I don't think there's a discrepancy, Charlie. Not within these last few months, at least." Elsie sleepily murmured, the sound bringing a blissful sense of drowsiness to the man. He knew that he was just as worn out as his wife, that someone could knock them both down with only a feather if they really wanted to.

But that chair probably wouldn't be terribly conducive for sleep –– not that he remembered the finer details, of course.

"Can you make it to your room all right?" Because, unless she was unable to move, he had the funniest feeling she'd think it terribly indecent to remain here for the evening while he was recovering.

Elsie nodded, starting to stand up before something knocked her off-balance, sending her right back into the armchair. Quietly muttering something that sounded like quite the curse –– he should've been scandalized by the sound, but found it to be more endearing than anything else –– he watched her try to push herself off, but to no avail.

"I am terribly sorry about this, Charles," And she really did sound quite apologetic. Which made no sense, seeing as how he was the one who'd lost his memory and had been causing her recent lack of rest. "But I do believe you're stuck with me for the night."

Softly smiling, the world starting to feel a lot lighter, "Haven't you realized, Elsie, that the whole point of marriage is to be stuck together for many nights to come?"

Even in the dim lighting of the night, he could see her blush –– the sight just as pretty as ever before.

"Mr. Carson," He quietly snorted at the name, amused to say the least that she was resorting to a formality now of all times. "Ye–– you may have a point there."

_I do believe that **is**_ _the point._

Still, judging from the fact that her lilt was starting to slide into a brogue and he had the urge to guffaw at it –– a most undignified reaction for him to have –– Charles could only assume that they were both in desperate need of sleep.

"So, what do you suggest, _Mrs. Carson_? I don't think I can let you stay there, not if I can help it. Which means I either have to take your spot, carry you back to your room," Both thoughts he didn't particularly mind, if he were being honest, "Or, we can enjoy a privilege of married life."

_And share this lovely bed that's much closer than your room and much more comfortable than that chair._

He could hear her rolling her eyes in protest of all three options as she struggled to remain upright. And, giving her a moment to think it through, he curiously watched as his wife continued to stare down the space in front of her –– the woman now perched on the edge of the bed.

"Don't tell me you mean to fling yourself back into your room?" _I don't recall that being an option, Elsie._

"No." The man wasn't convinced by her answer, seeing as how she looked poise to do just that. Yet, even if she managed to make it to her feet –– something that seemed less and less likely, judging from the subtle tremors of exhaustion overtaking her body –– she probably wouldn't be able to make it all the way.

It was very easy for him to imagine witnessing her collapsed halfway to her room, having overworked herself all because of him. And as her husband he would do his very best to make sure that none of that ever happened.

"Elsie, don't push yourself to do something you can't." Readjusting himself, ready to help her but beginning to accept the fact that she might honestly fall asleep right then and there. And he'd have to accept that. "I promise you, there's no need for that."

The woman remained still, fixating on trying to get up from the plushy depths that enveloped her. And while Charles was initially confused about why she didn't feel comfortable about sleeping in the same room, considering their relationship, he tried to set aside his confusion –– wanting to understand. It wasn't as though the house would fall apart if it were to be discovered they had shared a bed, what with their being married––

_Oh._

"Elsie, love," Oh, she was far more considerate than he currently wanted to be. Because, even if they were married or not, there were standards to be set as the butler and housekeeper of Downton. Which meant that if she overslept, if someone discovered she was not in her rooms, it would cast a lot of criticism in their direction –– something they didn't need. "You're not going to make any of this worse by staying here tonight."

_It really is all right,_ as tiresomely repetitive the words may have seemed.

With her occupying the armchair, frankly an innocuous spot for the woman to reside, he already felt far more at ease than he had in days. He felt as though he truly wasn't alone, that his incompetency when it came to remembering didn't really matter with her here. Even if someone discovered them together in the morning, even if things had to come to light long before this abyss was ready to let them go, it would be okay.

"How can you know that?"

It was lowly whispered with a vulnerability that had cut through the air more so than any of Mrs. Patmore's knives. She wasn't just talking about the possible impropriety, that much was for certain.

And he was just as certain he never wanted to hear such fear from her ever again.

"I can't pretend to know anything about this, Elsie," Charles wasn't going to lie to her. He couldn't do that to the woman, he respected her far too much. "But I can say that letting fear dictate our lives isn't living. Letting fear take over is giving into the lowest form of existence possible and it is something I refuse to do."

These last few days had changed him more than he could've ever imagined. Whether his memory came back or not, things were inherently different in his life. He could no longer claim to be the same man he was three days ago.

She slowly nodded in the silence, a contemplation of sorts running around her as far as he could tell. Something within his words had managed to strike a chord within the woman, hopefully one that would let her rest even if she didn't move out of that chair.

"If I've learned anything lately," Charles had almost dozed off to sleep when she finally spoke, her _sotto voce_ words stirring him back into consciousness for at least the next few seconds. "It's that we will never know what the future holds in store for us or how much longer we'll even be here."

His heart ached at the honest sentiment, painfully attentive as she continued, knowing that the woman wasn't done speaking.

"But, whatever the future holds for us, however long we're here," Sluggishly, determined to do this one last thing before sleep claimed her for the night, she reached out a hand –– holding it out for him to only if he wanted it, "We'll be here _together_."

Unhesitatingly, he reached out to take the offered promise –– tenderly grasping a part of the steady existence that was her. Bridging the gap between the armchair and the bed, neither he nor she had the strength to do anything else but keep holding on as sleep began to forcefully persuade them into resting.

And the best part?

The best part about this was not finally regaining a peaceful air as his mind began to drift into slumber. The best part was also not the fact that he could ensure they would both rest for the next few precious hours, something that was vital for any of this to work.

No, none of that amounted to the best part. The best part was, in his opinion, two-fold. Firstly, it was having the freedom to sleepily beam in the darkness, to groggily bask in this splendid blessing and revel in the peace it brought. Secondly, it was knowing that –– even with that abyss tainting the last ten years –– she still trusted him enough, still _loved_ him enough, he knew he'd never have to endure any of this alone.

He could trust in this promise being their reality, whatever else may occur.

And, judging from the sounds of contentment emanating from his wife, the woman's breath having eased into that of true slumber within seconds, she felt the exact same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Second Author's Note:** I have to say, I think this story's altered my writing much like I've altered it. … No? Doesn't quite have the same ring to it as the original quotation?
> 
> Fair enough.
> 
> In any case, to those who are a little concerned about the sleep-deprivation declarations: I've found that exhaustion, as disorienting as it can be, can be quite eye-opening when it comes to personal truths. I also thoroughly intend on giving them both a little rest before we take any other serious steps forward.
> 
> Either way, as always, I hope you enjoyed this little treat and that you have a lovely day! See you in 3-5 days!


	5. The Efforts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Once again, thank you all for continuing to support this little story! It is indescribable how much it means to me that, in a time that's been personally exhausting and really unknown, there's been so much support with this. Thank you all, truly.
> 
> Also, there'll be a shout-out to a very sweet Chelsie fanfiction. Kudos to anyone who knows the reference –– I'll definitely be sure to share the name of the story in the next chapter so we can all properly enjoy it!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Downton Abbey_ nor the novel or the film that's going to be referenced in this chapter.

_Three Hours After The Promise_

Upon waking up with her still grasped in his, Elsie Hughes should have had some sort of protest. Heaven knows that holding hands wasn't the most comfortable way to sleep, and certainly not when an armchair was thrown into the matter. All of that wasn't even taking into consideration the decorum of the matter, the propriety that normally kept them from such a risqué engagement.

And yet, smiling faintly at her friend, she continued to hold on. She gently continued to grasp both his hand and her promise that they'd keep going together.

It was funny really: this was the first night that, for the three measly hours she got, she finally felt rested. Where she at last felt as though the chaos of the last few days was leaving her well alone.

Glancing fondly at her friend once again, Elsie became well aware that his tone toward her might change once he found out the truth of their marriage. She would understand perfectly well if that truth did a lot of damage, that wouldn't surprise her one bit. Still, there was still something, some gut instinct, that told her that they might have a chance of staying friends even after he found out. That even this fiasco with its dizzying impacts might not have any real bearing on where they stood in the time to come.

The key was to be as honest and understanding as possible with one another.

Which meant that she knew she'd have to tell him the truth sooner than later.

Which also meant that she'd have to tell him the _whole_ truth. If Elsie truly wanted to be honest, if she wanted him to have any real chance of understanding _why_ , she needed to explain how terrified she'd been. How this seemed to be the only alternative. How she typically despised it when people thought the world was ending –– and that, for the first time in her life, she'd begun to garner an inkling of that sort of fear.

Nevertheless, all of these truths paled in comparison to the one that had kept her going these last few days. That was the truth wherein it struck her, wherein she realized, she'd take any path that involved being by his side –– friendship _or_ companionship.

Now, she didn't add marriage to those options for a few reasons. One, it couldn't possibly work with their statuses as butler and housekeeper. Two, all of her feelings purely came from friendship –– how could a marriage be sustained on that? And three, judging from the kind and simple way he treated her, how he'd never pressed her for any romance this entire time, Elsie knew that the marriage his mind concocted was a sweet, if not a little pat-a-cake, version –– a companionship that dipped into some of the more tender aspects of romance but never ventured into the "full" aspects that made up a typical marriage.

After all, other than the occasional kiss and hand-holding, how was this any different from what they'd been doing for the last fifteen years? And if Charles instinctively recognized that, if his mind had only changed the details and not the core of their relationship, then what else could he be subconsciously gravitating toward other than friendship?

And, for the record, if friendship was where Charles' mind continued to wander, then she really could start to trust that this might just have a chance of working out for the better.

So, quietly making her way out of the armchair –– it'd been surprisingly comfortable, though she still preferred a bed –– Elsie gently brought his hand to her lips, wanting to wake the man up before she snuck back to her room. It'd do no good for that trust of theirs to be diminished if he felt abandoned. And she _never_ wanted him to feel abandoned, not if she could help it.

Watching him stir back to life, a groggy glow of delight beginning to dance across his face as he finally woke up and realized what transpired, Elsie smiled and –– still holding his hand –– pressed it once more to her lips, gently blowing him a soft kiss in the process.

It felt more intimate than anything they'd done somehow, and yet it didn't scare her.

After coming to terms with all of the facts, nothing really scared her, not now.

"Is it time already?" The woman kept her smile light, refusing to let an unusual sense of sadness tinge it.

"It is."

Tenderly placing his hand back on the bed, she glanced at the door before looking back at him. There was no one outside in the hall, but that would only be the case for another ten minutes or so.

Right. Time to get a move on with her work and figure out the best time to tell the man the truth sooner rather than later.

Of course, unbeknownst to the woman, the world was about to make telling the truth very difficult. It wouldn't be impossible, mind. But with a host of unexpected social events among coincidental mishaps looming in the distance, there'd be almost no time for anything but work.

_Thirteen Hours After The Promise_

"Elsie," Charles had been shocked when the woman had finally slipped away from the terribly busy proceedings to sneak these particular items to his room –– his wife was descending down quite the deviant path with this first plot of hers. How she managed to do this amongst the chaos of the day escaped him: he'd heard all the commotion of the morning, the quips about the unending week's work among other things. But, more importantly, "I wasn't being serious when I said you ought to sneak these––"  
  


"Charles, I've only five minutes before I'm needed downstairs," She interrupted him, the housekeeper obviously not in the mood for such a scandalized tone. Heaven knows what that implied for any who crossed her path today. "Anything?"

A taste of the words _Scottish Dragon_ came to mind, but wasn't that her nickname all along?

Besides, that wasn't what he was being asked about, now was it?

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, seeing the eating utensils randomly spread out on a handkerchief, Charles winced at the arrangement before declaring, "I'd never put them in this order, love, but if you insist,"

Pointing at each individual spoon as he went down the line, "This is the egg spoon, that the jam spoon. Clearly this is the bouillon spoon with the melon spoon to its immediate left. And the tea spoon really shouldn't follow but, for today, it does. And, of course, _that_ is the grapefruit spoon, though it really ought to be over there, if only because of its size." Pausing, still in disbelief at the disarray right before his very eyes, "Right. I remember the cutlery, nothing else. Now can we please arrange them by size?"

"Sorry, love," Elsie muttered, proceeding to wrap them all up in the cloth, "We've no time for that."

Charles winced at the haphazard manner his wife handled the spoons, her apparent indifference outweighing his initial relief over remembering these details. Any detail snatched back into his mind was another victory, another sign that he could really come back to his duties and trust it all to work out.

Yet, somehow, that didn't matter all when he could hear all those poor spoons clanking up against one another, being treated in a fashion he really didn't think they deserved.

"Are you sure I can't sneak down tonight to test myself with polishing the silver?" Being cooped up in this room, pleasant as it was to have her company to himself, was beginning to get to him. And there was only so many times he could pace around, stare out his window in contemplation, or peruse the few books in the room before he began to lose it.

"Certainly not. We're not risking Thomas or anyone else, for that matter, finding you much too healthy much too soon."

_As you wish,_ the man dejectedly thought to himself –– deeply unimpressed.

_Twenty-Seven Hours After The Promise_

Her dear friend had been adamant she remained long enough this time to breathe. He even insisted that, although she was finally getting an acceptable amount of sleep, she needed to take at least a five minute break before going back into battle.

Hence, this little exercise in recollection. Since five minutes of spare time would hardly be enough time to reveal the whole sordid truth, Elsie figured she'd at least test his knowledge and see if Charles could remember it all before he had to return.

"When you were polishing the silver," Because they'd long since established he would not be going downstairs anytime soon, which meant it was time for prompting inquiries, "Do you think you had a tradition? A certain method for going about it?"

Elsie kept a careful eye on the man, having begun to learn more of his tells over the last few days. There'd be moments where a trace of memory would come knocking and it'd show in his eyes, a sharpening focus coming forth. Or, his hands would suddenly still, as though they could possibly pull forth more strands of recollection if they concentrated hard enough.

The woman had also learned to let him tell her if he did remember something, having realized that her prodding would only push whatever was coming to mind far away. That's not to say that he ever remembered something truly concrete even when she gave him time. Only that the odds were better when Charles was given a few moments of solitude.

Except, this time, judging from the way the man's eyes had glazed a little and his gaze seemed intensely focused on the floor, she couldn't help but ask, "Charles?"

He looked to be caught in whatever was whirling around his thoughts, forcing her to put her own curiosity aside as she patiently waited for an answer.

"There was a song, I think." He tilted his head, hands starting to fidget as though they were fighting to conjure the memory out of thin air. Gently, still stuck in whatever only he could see, Charles began to hum some sort of melody –– something that struck a faint bell within her own mind. "Something about a Sunday morning, I think?"

Elsie wracked her mind for the possibilities, but found herself at a loss for an answer. It was too short a melody for her to recall anything proper and, not that she'd tell him, his humming sounded a little off-key. He himself looked to be equally unable to come up with an answer after a few more attempts, sighing once again before looking despondently away.

_Now, we can't have that, now can we? Not if I can spare a few more minutes,_ "Let me hear it one more time, darling, it might ring another bell…."

_Forty-Six-and-a-Half Hours After The Promise_

"Well now," Charles had curiously watched the woman come into the room, this time holding something behind her back as she stepped inside, "Does this look at all familiar to you, Charlie?"

The man found himself staring in disbelief at the sight of Charlotte Brontë's _Jane Eyre_ , the sight of that particular book cover definitely triggering something deep within his mind. This was not something he recognized from over a decade ago –– this was something that'd crossed his path sometime _much_ more recently.

"Where did you find this?" He couldn't help but wonder, recognizing the cover of the book extraordinarily well. But _Jane Eyre_ was a novel that'd been around since early on in the Victorian Era. Since he could never recall a clear interest in the story prior to ten years ago, why would it strike such familiarity now?

And this particular copy of the novel, to boot?

Yes, once Charles grasped the book again, he remembered just how well he knew it. A sense of fascination was trickling down his mind, a suspicion that he had continually read this novel for a greater purpose than pure pleasure. That this wasn't something he'd chosen for himself, but something he'd thought to choose on behalf of someone els––

"Wasn't this," Charles paused, the brink of a conversation coming back to him the more he held the novel, "Wasn't this one of _your_ favourites, Elsie?"

"It was." She eventually admitted, looking caught in a memory of her own. "It _is_."

Right. Flipping through the pages, he noticed how his hands seemed to be aware of so many details within the pages themselves. He gently ran a finger over the tea stain on page 27, carefully handling the section wherein Jane finally arrived to Thornfield Hall –– those pages feeling as though they'd been clutched, the reader fraught with suspense –– among other little clues in the novel, little unspoken moments of engagement with the pages themselves. Skimming the words himself, dipping his thoughts into the story, a sense of understanding came over him.

With it, a budding sense of shame.

" _I suppose its gothic quality can be appreciated, Mrs. Hughes. The novel does help to explain some of the attitude of the era."_

" _And is that all you suppose, Mr. Carson?"_

" _I don't really think there's much else to it."_

" _Really now?"_

"And I," Here he hesitated, somehow not liking the answer that was creeping back into his mind. Something about belated guilt, something that indicated... "I had a differing opinion."

"You did." It was blankly spoken, neutral to a guarded degree.

His shame expanded within seconds.

As did his desire to know what exactly transpired.

"But, I don't think that's all." Charles continued, seeing a hazy version of his Lordship's library before him. The image dissipated, morphing into that of holding this same copy in his hand –– still a blur of memory.

"No?" She shook her head at a thought, "I suppose it couldn't be all. Not if you've apparently checked the novel out three times over the last seven years –– _without_ mentioning one word of this to me, I might add. Though how I hadn't noticed it before is also beyond me."

Charles nodded at this statement, still ashamed by his initial reaction even if it looked as though he tried to redeem himself within these last seven years, "I think I had wanted to understand."

"Go on."

Knowing that he had to be purposeful with his words, especially now that he did remember more of his feelings about this, "You've always struck me as a practical woman, Elsie. And, so I wanted to understand what in that novel could interest you."

She nodded in concession, though something still looked to be bothering her. He'd seen that look before, recently _and_ not-so-recently. But Charles couldn't quite grasp what prodded that particular gaze or, much to his frustration, what it truly implied. Were his words now just as insulting as they'd unintentionally been then? Is that why her frown remain deeply etched into her eyes? Was he only laying salt on an old wound, one that he lost the right to help patch up years ago?

Glancing back at the novel, not wanting to acknowledge how much grief he must've inadvertently caused her over the years with his thoughtless words, the man continued to slowly thumb through the novel –– unsure of how to continue the conversation. He wanted to say something considerate, wanted to apologize for something that had to have been upsetting, but no sentiments seemed appropriate.

"Jane was always willing to carry on, despite the circumstances. She stood by her principles, even when it wasn't clear why it mattered. She didn't always understand the world, she didn't always have a firm grasp on reality, but she kept going." Charles kept his eyes fixed on the pages before him, craving to hear more but refraining from badgering the woman about it. "While I never really cared for the boxing up of Ber–– for a certain part of the novel among other things, Jane's principles, her struggle to understand her place in the world, did win me over."

When it was clear that this was all she was willing to share on the matter, he cautiously looked up. Elsie continued to be fixed on something, still looked to be deeply bothered. The difference was now it was something he _knew_ he had inadvertently caused –– why else would her words toward him be so distant, so detached?

And since it was his fault for having been so thoughtless all those years ago, he felt deeply responsible for this continued pain, wanting another chance to rectify this wrong.

Which was why a certain idea was now springing forth. One that pleaded with him to be considered, demanding to be spoken the moment he could manage it.

"Elsie, may I make a request that, given the circumstances, you may find inappropriate and are more than welcome to reject?"

She huffed a little chuckle at this, faint amusement managing to distract her from her thoughts and causing him to inwardly exhale in relief. Whether the woman rejected his request or not, he'd at least managed to ease a little of her grief.

"'Terribly inappropriate', Charles? 'Welcome to reject'?" She quirked an eyebrow in his direction, causing the man to hesitantly smile in hopes that her words were meant to be encouraging. "Now you must tell me the whole thing."

"Well," He hadn't expected her to say that, though he really should've known better after all of this time. "If you aren't opposed to the matter, I would like to read it."

"'Read it', Charles?" Elsie tilted her head a little, looking to be more than a little confused by the nature of this request, "You hardly need my permission to read _Jane Eyre._ "

"Let me explain," Because he really needed to if they were going to get anywhere, "It's not that I'd like to read it to myself."

"No?"

"No." Looking at her quite seriously, needing her to understand him, "It's that I'd like to read it to _you_. Aloud, that is."

Charles could see the gears whirring away in her mind at the thought, her shocked jaw stumbling into a bit of a drop at the thought. He could see how whatever had been bothering her was being spun out of sight in favour of this request –– an observation that pleased him to no end. Maybe he was finally redeeming himself for all of those mistakes from before, maybe they still had a chance when it came to managing this.

"You'd like to read _Jane Eyre_ to me?" Elsie repeated, obviously agog.

He quickly nodded, continued relief spurring him on, "I know it's a lengthy novel and that we probably wouldn't even be able to finish a chapter a night, not if we wanted any sleep. But, with your permission, I would like to read it to you."

"The entire book?"

"The entire book."

"Well," She started once again, oblivious to how his breath tensed in anticipation, "I'm not opposed to at least _trying_ the idea out, Charles. But, if you find it 'too gothic' for your tastes, you are not obligated to finish it."

The man nodded, relieved that she had accepted his request. And, beginning to flip all the way back to the first page, he quietly cleared his throat in preparation.

"You'd like to start _now_ , Charlie?"

"I would," He affirmed, before considering that he might be pushing for too much now. "That is, only with your permission."

Charles watched as Elsie hesitated, observing that something was continuing to hold her back. But he knew that he could respect her wishes, that he _had_ to respect her wishes, whatever they may be. And so he refrained from begging for a response.

Closing the book, knowing he could easily return to the correct page if she so desired, the man tried his best to remember to breathe and practice some patience. It was difficult, if only because the situation was tenuous for reasons he was only now starting to unveil. But, he could manage a little patience for the woman who had unending patience for him when it came to this mess of a situation.

"I suppose a few pages couldn't hurt –– as a test, mind."

Refraining from smiling at this, delighting in this little victory that would allow him to learn more about the woman, he carefully re-opened the book and went back to the beginning.

Then and only then did he begin to softly intone that, "There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question…."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Aren't mini book clubs of two just the cutest?
> 
> Sorry for that bit of a cliff-hanger, in regards to her committing to telling him everything and then not being able to (or, perhaps, being a little unwilling) push the matter. I promise that, in just a few days, we'll see that conversation and then some.
> 
> In any case, as always, I hope you have a lovely day!


	6. The Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author’s Note:**   
>  Okay, so I know I'm really early, but this chapter came to me faster than I anticipated (and then proceeded to beg to be posted sooner rather than later). Not the happiest of the chapters, but there will be hope. 
> 
> Also, if there’s a certain familiarity, a certain parallelism to a specific CS, I’m sure that’s _  
> only_ coincidence!
> 
> And, finally, for those who are curious as to why _Jane Eyre_ suddenly made an appearance, you should definitely check out GeordieLass' _Here and Now_. Definitely a sweet Chelsie treat.
> 
> **Disclaimer:**  
>  Even though I’m aiming for Fellowes-level melodrama today, I can definitely confirm I’m not him and therefore do not own  
>  _Downton Abbey._

_Six Hours Before The Return_

This was their last evening, the last opportunity they had to stall before Mr. Carson had to be brought back to the downstairs world. Already, Barrow and O’Brien were beginning to grow suspicious of the butler's lack of recovery, prompting Elsie to fair warn her friend that this was it, they were officially out of time for any more last-minute miracles.

Still, even though she had come to terms with that, it hadn’t meant she was, by any means, ready to come to terms with two other prominent facts about the situation:

Firstly, although the butler was indeed beginning to prove his competence once again, he was unable to recall little more than faint _ideas_ of the past. There had been proper rivulets of memory that had begun to ease back into his mind, like the previous evening with _Jane Eyre_ , for instance. However, there was no concrete return, none of that true confidence that came with remembering everything before the fall. 

Which meant that her friend would be forced to take his chances with his instincts. That his return wasn’t guaranteed to be the smoothest nor the easiest.

Of course, it was only once she understood that first fact could she come to terms with the second:

More than three days after recognizing the conversation she needed to have with him, Elsie managed to remain inordinately unprepared when it came to addressing the truth. She hadn’t a clue as to how to break the news to him, how to set up the conversation so that reality could be easily reached as painlessly as possible. And, if he miraculously remembered everything upon coming back tomorrow without her having said a word tonight... well, she didn’t know what she would do.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

Tiredly sat in the armchair, thankful Charles had never questioned her about why she hadn’t joined him back on the bed, especially considering their kiss from only a few days ago, Elsie shook her head. They’d just finished another few pages of _Jane Eyre_ , easing into that fashion of silence where troubled thoughts continually took to the surface. 

Then, recognizing her cowardice about everything, she bit her lip and tried her best to come up with something.

“Do you ever think of what might’ve happened if we’d gone another way?” It was a half-hearted reference to an old conversation, one that had haunted her thoughts for a day now. 

In light of his feelings for her –– for, while it was true these feelings of romance may honestly be meant for someone else, it was clear his intimate trust was directed solely toward her –– Elsie had thought back to their old conversations. She wondered if that same trust of his had been there all along, if all the feelings that’d emerged over these last few days had actually been present throughout the last decade.

There was one conversation in particular that, now that the woman thought of it, had been rather one-sided and begged for reflection. A conversation that she couldn’t help but question after all this time, wondering if she’d somehow misread the whole thing.

For when she’d asked Charles about if he’d ever considered another way of life, he had never answered her. He hadn’t told her if he ever imagined having a wife and child, if he had wanted to work in a shop or factory once upon a time. The man had only calmly deflected the questions, asking her instead. Had only watched as she answered her own questions, letting her own insecurities slip into the open. And while that may have been due to his position as butler, she’d recently begun to reconsider that moment from another perspective.

She’d started to wonder if he’d been withholding from her because it was _she_ who had asked.

Which was partially why Elsie had brought the subject back up again. Not only because she wanted to see if the words would trigger anything, but also because –– as cowardly as it felt to beat around the bush like this –– she figured that starting in familiar territory might help her warm up to the more unknown topic: his inevitable reaction to the truth.

“What do you mean, ‘gone another way’?” Charles’ tone told her they were on the brink of discovering something. What exactly that brink was was something else altogether. “Do you mean if I’d worked in a shop or factory?”

“That’s part of it, yes.” Recognizing the familiarity of this, Elsie briefly wondered if she should carry on with the old script. A glance at _Jane Eyre_ , a glimpse that reminded her of how persistent and brave Jane grew to be over time, provided her with a different, scarier answer. “But that’s not all of it.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.” Refusing to frown or bit her lip any longer, not interested in letting regret dictate any more of her actions, “Charles, I have a confession to make.”

Well, he certainly didn’t like the sound of her statement, not if his face was anything to go by. And she didn’t like the taste of it, those dreaded words that were certainly spelling out an end for all of this. But if they were to make a clean break out of it, if they were to have a chance of surviving as friends, they needed to talk.

“What is it, Elsie?”

The woman mirthlessly smiled, feeling a strange sense of regret grow within her. Friends and colleagues didn’t resort to Christian names, certainly not in their case where roles like butler and housekeeper demanded an ever-present formality. And, though it had been initially disconcerting to hear her name spoken like that she had become accustomed to it –– finding now that she’d miss the sound.

She’d miss a lot of things from the last few days.

But she needed to keep going.

“Before I say anything else, I need to ask you something.” Looking away from the novel, making sure to squarely meet his concerned gaze, the woman at last asked the one thing that’d been bothering her for days now, “What else do you remember about our–– our being together?”

Elsie couldn’t call it a marriage, couldn’t dare to refer to any of it in those terms. Didn’t want to feel as though she’d outright lied to the man.

Though, honestly, what else could she consider this last week?

“You mean, besides the terms of endearments?”

“Yes.” _Surely our being together so often this last week, our kiss, our looking at_ Jane Eyre _, our discussions and provocations –– surely, some part of that revealed at least a hint of the truth to you?_

“Honestly?” Elsie steeled herself for anything, watching as the man’s demeanour began to contort into something a lot less neutral, “Nothing’s come to mind.”

Within seconds, his own truth began to hastily careen forward, “No memories of our joining together prior to this week, no wedding ceremony, no honeymoon, no secret walks to the village, no nights spent together, no kisses of any kind––”

_My, my._ Those were not thoughts befitting of only companionship. But, thoughts of companionship and marriage were _highly_ inappropriate to contemplate, especially after everything.

Calmly regaining her senses, Elsie watched him take a shuddering breath, the man apologetically continuing to confess once some semblance of his own control was reaffirmed, “Please forgive me, Elsie, because I remember absolutely nothing beyond mere _impressions_. And I am so frustrated with myself for it because––” 

His words collapsed into tension, silence constricting any voice he had.

Well, the woman had suspected that it’d only be impressions and no real scenes –– which at least showed that he inherently recognized the truth on some level of thought. Still, her heart continued to crumble a little further with each confession. She couldn’t imagine the guilt Charles must’ve experienced over this, the disappointment in himself for something that was not his fault in the slightest.

No, it was not his fault.

She was the one who followed doctor’s orders, who remained fixated on trying to get his memories back any way she could. The one who initially kept pushing for a resolution so that things could go back to the way things were. And then she became the one who continued to push all of this because it looked to be the only way she could partake in the company of her friend –– this looked to be the only answer for keeping him in her life.

_How could I have possibly been so selfish––_

“Why do you ask?”

Closing her eyes at this question, loathing that this was what she needed to do, “Because there’s a reason you don’t remember anything else about us.”

Charles Carson never stopped staring at the woman after his rambling, least of all when she spoke like _that_. Sitting in the dark atmosphere that had taken over his room, so unsure of what she meant and definitely not liking the sound of it, the man continued to watch with an uneasy curiosity. He saw the tension that gripped her body, that bothered look of hers taking clear hold of her face again, and knew that there was an answer here to so many questions. 

And as much as he’d like to take her in his arms and reassure her everything would be perfectly fine, whatever she needed to say –– an action he’d been wanting to do for quite some time now –– Charles knew this was something she had to do.

“Your not remembering anything would be because,” For someone he knew could be terribly straightforward, she was taking her time, inadvertently demonstrating how much this pained her. “Because there really hadn’t been an us, not in the sense you’ve thought.”

Charles should have been shocked. He should have demanded an explanation for such nonsense. He should have protested her words right then and there, arguing that nothing could be further from the truth. 

He only continued to let her speak, letting the true picture begin to form.

“Now, I’ve not lied to you and I’ve no meaning of ever doing so,” Elsie hesitated, feeling her own personal torment begin to seep into this confession, “But there are things I’ve avoided saying.”

Wanting to ask, knowing he was seconds away from knowing the truth and that it’d be something entirely different than anything he’d faced in the last seven days, the man continued to listen. 

“When you had fallen, I was petrified by the thought of losing you. Maybe that’s why I’d started to take part in this folly, why it had only taken some persuasion from Doctor Clarkson to carry on in this charade –– I honestly couldn't tell you.”

_Doctor Clarkson?_ What the man had to do with this, Charles hadn’t the faintest idea.

“But, whatever drove me to this, there’s no excuse for how I’ve acted. There’s no legitimate explanation for why I’ve done what I've done, why I’ve felt ––” _Why you felt what, precisely?_ “But, none of that matters now. What matters now is telling you the truth.”

Charles nodded again, these little slips of hers –– her stumbling words, her pitch wavering, everything –– only solidifying his own resolution to hear out everything.

“After the incident, I’d informed Doctor Clarkson of that moment in the cellar, of how you thought I was your–– your,” Pausing, having not spoken this word in front of him before, “Your _wife._ And when the doctor had heard this, he had informed me that it would be best to accept this role. That to do otherwise might cause irreparable damage to your health –– quite possibly making it impossible for you to recover.

“At first I thought the idea too far-fetched, too distasteful to partake in. I didn’t want to lead you on like that, I didn’t want to witness you recover only to watch you discover you’d been _lied_ to.” Charles didn’t see it like that, not one bit. However, before he could protest any of her words, “But then I realized that I cared about you far too much to do anything else. That, any chance to help you regain your life, even if it cost us our friendship, was worth it.”

Well, it all explained so much of the last few days.

And, contrary to what she seemed to be thinking, he felt no anger toward her.

Only more shame. 

Charles couldn’t remember anything, her words brought no clear confirmation to his mind. And, still, deep in his gut, he knew that she was right. Which meant that it was his incapability, his lack of memory, that had caused her this nightmare of a week.

“I’m sorry that I’ve brought this upon you,” Elsie carried on, beginning to withdraw as her tone became more resigned, “But, I couldn’t bear you discovering this on your own.”

And Charles appreciated that she had told him, especially now that he was only a few hours away from returning. 

“I know it must be distasteful to hear this now, that you must be embarrassed, angry even, to have––”

He couldn’t let her continue, “Please, Els–– Mrs. Hughes,” Not knowing where they stood on that front, not liking how she winced at the sound of her name, the man proceeded to explain, “I’m not embarrassed.”

And, watching her questioningly stare at him, “I’m not embarrassed or angry. I am ashamed." Seeing those questions only increase in her eyes, "That I brought this upon you, that I couldn’t reach the truth on my own.” Staring at the floor, being unable to meet her dumbstruck gaze at this point, “If my mind hadn’t managed to concoct this bullying scheme––”

“You _cannot_ be held responsible for this, Mr. Car–– Charles.” Elsie Hughes knew this would most likely be one of the last times she’d ever get a chance to speak to him like this. That this was important enough she’d set aside decorum, even if he already knew reality and she no longer had the right to. “You are not to be blamed for something we hardly understand. And even if we _did_ understand it, you are still _not_ to be blamed.”

Hesitant to continue voicing her thoughts, she realized now said thoughts would never leave her alone if she didn’t say them here and now. That if she walked away with these final concerns unvoiced, she would live to regret it for the rest of her days. And so, with more hesitation than the woman thought possible, she briefly looked away from him before turning back and continuing to unravel everything. 

“To be honest, as foolish as it may be for me to say, I did enjoy this little secret, this little dream. I can’t blame you for how you felt –– I can’t even imagine what this has been for you. But if I were to continue stringing you along,” She held up a hand at his protest, “It would only become a lie. And, as I said before, I’ve no intention of ever doing that to you.”

Well then. She’d said her piece and he’d undoubtedly need some time to think it through. 

Which meant now was as good a time as any to make her departure. 

It was with a detached air that the housekeeper collected _Jane Eyre_ , determinedly pushing herself out of the armchair and onto her feet. Mr. Carson had every right to be upset with her in her eyes, every right to be vexed by her behaviour within the situation. That the butler said nothing, silently watching her as she began to walk away, made perfect sense –– without even looking at him, she knew he’d undoubtedly want nothing to do with her now.

And, still, there was one more thing her heart craved to say.

Staring at the door, one hand already grasping the doorknob, Elsie slowly turned back once more, “I understand now if you want nothing to do with me. Certainly, there’s no need for more nightly readings.” The book burned in her hand at this, feeling as though it’d all been an unnecessary mistake on her behalf to indulge in it. “But, I stand by what I said before. I would like to keep facing the future together. The only difference now is that I understand I’ve no right to ask for it, not with the way you must feel about everything.”

Without another word, she determinedly began to turn back toward opening the door, ready to accept all consequences for her actions. Maybe they’d be able to salvage their friendship, it was more likely that she shouldn’t have been so quick to initially assume that it would all work out. But, either way, she’d said her piece and that was all she could do.

“I really wish you wouldn’t presume to know my feelings about this.”

It was not spoken with an accusatory, embarrassed air. Anger did not latch onto any of his words with this statement. 

Far from it, judging from the quiet resolution in his voice. 

She kept a hand on the door, disconcerted and highly disbelieving that _those_ were his words, “Now that I’ve told you the truth, you are to tell me that all is well between us? That you’re not at all upset?” 

It was his turn for hesitation, “I admit that I need some time to think it through,”

She turned around, shutting the door gently behind –– ever the conscientious housekeeper, even at this late hour, “There you have it then!”

However, his hesitation did not look to spill over into anything else, “I'm sorry, but I don't agree.”

“And why not?” Because, if he truly thought he had no reason to be upset, maybe it was more than his memory that the man had lost!

Yet it looked as though he would persist in his reasoning, “Because I don’t see why you have to leave, why you feel you must cut yourself out of everything now.”

_And why not?_ She mentally repeated this thought to herself, feeling inexplicably exhausted and unexpectedly defeated by his foolish attitude. Why was the man being this stubborn?

“Don’t you?”

Unswerving, though with traces of at least some sort of sheepishness, “Not really, no.”

Elsie unashamedly shot him a look of growing bewilderment, her jaw not quite dropping but definitely not fully shut, “You mean, even after a week of my lying––”

“But was it a lie?”

She sharply shook her head once more, a scoff faintly drawing itself through the air at this plainly spoken question, “Mr. Carson, I refused to tell you that we were never officially married. I never informed you that your believed relationship with me was, in fact, a dream.”

The man insistently held to a collected tone, “Did I ever ask?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But––”

“Right. So, were your actions throughout this last week driven only by a sense of obligation for your colleague? Was that where you ‘lied’?”

“Of course not!”

“Then, once again, I’m sorry, Elsie,” Charles was decidedly not sorry, if his matter-of-fact attitude was anything to go by, “But I don’t how you lied to me.” 

_Now, I see how you were forced into a very difficult situation not many would’ve accepted, given the circumstances. I see how this last week had to be hell for you, given the integrity I know you to have. But I really don’t see how you lied to me._

He continued to speak, hoping she would at least listen to him if not forgive herself, “And, with that in mind, I really don’t see why we can’t hold to that promise of continuing to see this through together.”

“But,” The woman continued to softly protest, momentarily looking away in incredulity before squarely meeting his unflinching gaze, “You now know we are _not_ married. It’s all changed now, Charles, –– how can you be so accepting of this having finally heard everything?”

_I very much doubt I do know “everything” about this. But, that’s not the point here._ “Why does it matter, whether we’re married or not?” He held up a hand, just as she did minutes ago, praying the woman would continue to hear him out, “According to what you’ve told me, we’ve been ‘not married’ for fifteen years. And yet I know for a fact that we’ve managed to face so much of those fifteen years together –– that we stuck by one another's side as colleagues, friends even.”

Charles didn’t need his memories to truly begin to understand the foundation behind their relationship. He didn’t need every detail of the last decade in order to begin comprehending why he’d secretly thought them married by this point, why that dream of his had blended so well into reality. 

Elsie still had a long way to go before she could be convinced on this front, convinced that he had to be somehow delirious from hearing the confession, “And I suppose when your memories come back tomorrow, you won’t suddenly want a new ‘together’ with someone else?” 

Oh, that’d never happen. 

But, even so, he knew better than to voice that truth just yet.

Instead, Charles focused on speaking the practical language of the woman before him: “Suppose my memories never come back?”

“Char–– Mr. Carson,” To hear her slip like that gave him more hope than he could imagine, considering that she seemed determined to hold herself responsible for everything, stringing herself back to a level of formality that looked to be unbearable, “Do _not_ talk like that!”

“I have to.” _Elsie, I_ **_have_ ** _to._ “I can’t live a life where I’m always wondering about a future that may never come.” 

“But you’ve only just found out the truth! How do you know it won’t all come back when you fall asleep?” Somehow he doubted that, given everything. “And, even if it didn’t, how could you possibly be so sure this is what you want?”

Charles took her questions in with great consideration. For the first one, he had no doubt that a miraculous recovery was unlikely to happen. Given their efforts of the last week, it truly didn’t seem very probable. So the idea of his recovering everything once he fell asleep tonight was _not_ a concept he had much faith in.

As for the second question? 

As for the second question, his mind sank back into the facts before him. For starters, it’d been second-nature to see a lifetime spent by her side, in any capacity. Not once in all this time had his mind thought of anyone else he’d want instead. There were droplets of recollection that spoke of other people he'd cared for, fading rivulets of other faces he’d once surrounded himself with, of feelings he’d once fervently carried. 

However, nothing had felt as clearer than what he felt for her, even now, _especially_ now. He couldn’t imagine how Elsie must’ve felt this last week, what she was taking on for him of all people. And that the woman was terribly upset about the whole thing, that she had felt so much guilt it was apparent for all the world to see, to the point where she’d confessed everything tonight –– an action many others would’ve desperately avoided at all costs –– told him that she cared a great deal for him.

Which, in turn, only confirmed how certain he felt about the matter. 

How, if she were agreeable, he would _adore_ to continue to face the future by her side, together.

“Charles?” Elsie questioned, so unsure of everything she slipped and uttered his Christian name without even realizing it. She remained entrenched in observing the matter, concernedly watching as the man proceeded to deeply think on the matter –– contemplating her questions and giving no definite answer away in his face. There had been no traces of anger or upset, nothing except for a resolution that told her nothing.

“Much like the future,” He eventually began, drawing her completely into listening with nary a thought, “I can’t guarantee this is how I’ll always feel.”

_Finally,_ Elsie felt relieved Charles was being objective, that he was taking life into consideration. Clearly this couldn’t continue on and he was finally beginning to understand as such. Perhaps now, regardless of his memories, he was once again seeing reason.

“But, I can say that walking away now is one of the last things I want to do. Whatever comes next, walking away is something I refuse to do.” The _ever_ remained in his statement unspoken –– the optimistic promise decidedly against what she thought reality had to be. 

That unspoken promise rang loudly in her ears, nearly disarming many of the woman’s concerns as well as her fervent belief in what everything had to be. But she could only assume that this was what happened when such topics were discussed. She could only reason that sentimentality and idealism dipped into any conversation the later it got, convincing the speakers to trust in the world. And it was only when realism properly awoke in the morning that said speakers realized what a mistake they'd made.

_Well, then._ Elsie wanted to ask if he’d feel the same about everything, if this would still hold true, even if they never married. Even if they went back to only being colleagues, friends that worked together on matters of the house, would he continue to hold to his promise?

“And I can only suppose nothing I say will change your mind?” 

His resounding nod would have been endearing to an infinite degree if she hadn’t been so perplexed by everything.

“You’d be quite right to assume so, yes.”

Well, that confirmed it: Charles really was quite the daft man. Still, the woman had to attempt one final argument, “Even though I essentially lied to you this entire last week?”

“I wouldn’t call it lying so much as being placed in a tenuous position not many could manage.”

Elsie shot him another look of disbelief, shaking her head once more and glancing away so as to not blatantly roll her eyes at him. After everything, he looked to be determined to see her in some sort of positive light –– as though she could ever redeem herself for what she had put him through these last few days. 

“All right.” It was obvious that she’d not been able to convince him of anything, not now. Which meant that, at the very least, she could ensure that they both got a semblance of rest by leaving his room now. 

“I’m not sure why I should have this right, why you’re not upset,” Elsie was seriously considering putting forth a discreet question toward Dr. Clarkson to see if memory loss changed one’s personality, if she was being entirely honest. “But I’ll take no further advantage of it, not tonight.”

Charles wanted to tell her she could take every advantage at any time she pleased. But he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

“So,” He began to cautiously start once more, “We’ll walk down together then, as planned?”

Over the course of the last few days, they had come to an agreement on how to proceed if the man needed to return before he remembered everything. That, when it was time for him to go back to the downstairs, they would meet before-hand and make their way down together. It was all in case seeing those familiar surroundings triggered anything for the man. That way, if he found himself overwhelmed or taken aback, she’d by his side to reassure him that he had nothing to fear.

“If you’ve not come to your senses by the morning,” _Never. I will never come to_ **_those_ ** _senses –– they’re not mine._ “Then, yes, we’ll go down together.”

Charles nodded, inwardly relieved she was continuing to agree to this. Then, daring to push his luck just a bit more, “And then, after we’ve proven tomorrow's return to be a success, perhaps we could do some light reading?”

He held back a smile at the sound of her snort.

“My, my,” Oh, how he missed that little phrase of hers. It’d only been a short while since he’d last heard it, but Charles knew that it meant she was having a bit of fun. That the woman still thought him much too daft to take seriously, but she wasn’t about to slam the door on their friendship. “You’re much more confident about it all now –– perhaps I should’ve told you the truth from the start.”

Shaking his head at this, knowing she did the right thing, Charles could only softly smile in response –– still waiting for her answer. Perhaps she’d never return his feelings. But, if she were willing and truly wanting to remain friends, he’d be thrilled.

_Well?_ For she still hadn’t answered him and it’d been at least half a minute.

But he needn’t hold any trepidation or fear about the subject. For it was within a few more seconds of contemplation that prompted her to act. And, watching Elsie walk over to him, Charles' heart soared as she held _Jane Eyre_ out for him to take. 

“I’d be delighted,” Elsie whispered, the fondness she still held for him as clear as day, “And I mean that.”

“Thank you.” Joyfully taking both the book and the sentiment, savouring the fact that things just might be turning in the right direction now that the truth had been spoken, now that he was beginning to truly understand everything, Charles couldn’t help but confess: “Things have really started to make sense again, Elsie, and I have you to thank for it.”

He could finally understand his feelings, for one, as well as her behaviour all of this last week. The concerned air she’d tried to hide away throughout their time together, the looks of loving devotion that snuck into her gaze from time to time. How she’d been inordinately tense that first day, up until that blessed kiss, and why that tension had begun to noticeably sink back into her these last three. 

“You do, do you?” Charles wished he could explain it all now. But they both needed time to think and to come to terms with things, that was for sure. If he wanted any chance of his own explanation to be understood, for it to be taken as his truth and nothing else, he needed to give her the space she needed –– the continued reassurance that it didn’t matter what relationship they carried, he just wanted to keep facing life together any way he could. “I can’t say the same for myself.” 

“Well, perhaps some sleep will help.” The man honestly figured he’d not be getting any sleep anytime soon, but that shouldn’t stop her from resting.

“Oh, I doubt that, Ch–– Mr. Carson,” Her remaining shock was abundant, enough so that he could spot it a mile away. It wasn’t only in her words, but the fact that she hadn’t stopped staring at him –– a myriad of emotions swirling openly about her eyes. The housekeeper was normally much more guarded, much harder to read, “But, I think I’ll take my leave. That is, unless you’ve any secrets of your own you wish to share tonight?”

_None you don’t already know._

“My only wish tonight is for you to get some rest and pleasant dreams.” 

Elsie nodded at this, knowing that all the sleep in the world wouldn’t stop her from questioning why this conversation had ended so amicably. Why it hadn’t ended with her rightfully ending any further machinations on her part, putting a stop to these foolish dreams of theirs that couldn’t possibly be right. 

“Well, then,” She thought his wish over carefully, knowing that sleep would not be coming to her anytime soon. _But, at least, he’ll probably be able to sleep, now that he knows reality._ “I’ll wish the same to you.”

And, turning toward the door for the third time that evening, she quietly began to make her way back to her own room –– still astounded to say the least. But, as had become her mantra of late, it was no matter. For when the morning came to them tomorrow, when realism had finally woken up and disrupted sentimentality’s spell as well as idealism’s dream, things would be as they were meant to be. 

And _that_ was something she had never been so sure of in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we certainly have resolution on his front, at least for now, but does hers ever change? And, if it does, how so?
> 
> Now, normally, this is the part where I’d say “Toodle-loo! ‘Till the next update” and all that wonderful jazz. And I will get to that. But **I’ve a question to ask** before I do so:
> 
> Since you all have been so wonderfully supportive, something that’s inordinately humbling, I was wondering –– **is there anything you’d like to see?**
> 
> Because, if you have any requests you’d like to make for this story, I’d love to hear them.  
> In any case, as always, I hope you have a lovely day! Till next time!


	7. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** Thank you so much for your patience and continued support with this little story!

_Eight Minutes Before The Return_

For a few brief moments, Elsie Hughes could have said that she was ignorant to the trials before her today. She could have remained groggily ensconced in her covers, allowing herself to be oblivious to the early hour and the fact that she'd been foolish enough to tell him everything last night. She'd risked their friendship on a whim, on something that unlikely to happen. Although her friend had partially recovered from his fall, he had not shown any signs of a full recovery. Worst still, contrary to how he acted last night, she was convinced that –– whether he remembered or not –– he'd be severely disappointed in her behaviour, rightfully so.

_So much for ignorance._ Even if she wanted to pretend all was well with the world, the woman was far too practical to engage in such conduct. Hence, her immediately dragging herself out of bed the moment she realized what today held in store, forcing herself to face it as gracefully as she could.

And now?

Now, she was walking toward Mr. Carson with more than a hint of trepidation. Trepidation for what, she no longer knew by this point. It could've been for the man's recovery, for their friendship, for her position at Downton –– for, yes, it had occurred to her that the butler was well within his right to ask her to leave after her conduct of the last week.

Whatever the case, she was determined to get this over with. Eyeing her companion as she opened the door separating them, the housekeeper steeled herself for whatever would occur next.

The man had his back to her, looking to be examining the surrounding hall. He seemed oblivious to her approach, possibly stuck in another recollection. But, seeing as how he could've already made his way downstairs, noticing that he looked to be waiting for her at the spot they planned to meet before going downstairs, she couldn't help but feel a trace of hope wrap itself around her. Whatever else may or may not have happened to Mr. Carson since she last saw him, he was where they'd agreed to meet.

Which meant he possibly still trusted her.

At least in this regard, if nothing else.

"Mr. Carson," She began to call out, her calm tone giving none of her nerves away. It was very probable that he was only humouring her, having decided to stick to their original plan so as to not offend her. She could hardly begin to imagine what, if anything, he was now recalling –– what he was now motivated by. Nevertheless, until the butler outright rejected her offer to face the downstairs together, Elsie had to assume their original plan was still on, "Would you care to walk down together?"

Charles Carson was already smoothly turning around at the sound of her voice, excitement growing within him the moment he heard that door open. He knew it wouldn't bode well for them if he carried about with a sappy grin upon his face or if he spun around in joy at the sight of her approaching. That sort of a face, that sort of reaction, would undoubtedly give everything away in seconds. But, upon awakening and finding the world much the same –– including his feelings toward the woman now approaching –– Charles could only confirm that all of those feelings for her were never going to change.

"I'd like that very much, Mrs. Hughes." _Very much indeed._

Elsie gave a faint smile at this, an unexpected happiness threading itself across her thoughts. So, whatever he remembered or would be remembering throughout the day, he still wanted them to remain friends –– to face it together just as they promised.

Well, she could most certainly do just that.

Though, firstly, there was a tease begging to be uttered: "Mr. Carson, did you really intend on catching up on some reading today?"

Charles tilted his head in confusion before realizing she was speaking about the book he had clutched in one of his hands. It was their copy of _Jane Eyre._ He'd snatched it on a whim –– wanting a treasure from this last week by his side as a sort of anchor. It felt foolish, in retrospect, but if he'd felt that coming downstairs with this book would make it possible to handle any shocking recollection from the past.

"Not during the day, Mrs. Hughes. But, I may find some time for it tonight, if possible." _If that is still all right with you,_ is unspoken. They don't need the shameless eavesdroppers on the floor to catch wind of this budding tradition.

"Oh, really now? Even though you're just returning to work?"

The man smiled at this, suspecting that she was surprised he was still committed to reading the novel in light of his return. She could, of course, be stunned by the fact that he wasn't intending on spending every waking moment dedicated to his return. But, whatever she thought, he meant what he said before and he meant what he was saying now, "I have to confess, Mrs. Hughes: I'm fascinated by the story. And, having read it before, I want to see if I can jog my memory by continuing it again."

Because he had started to remember some of those old nights spent pouring over this particular story. He was beginning to recall how he had repeatedly examined Brontë's words for any explanation as to why the housekeeper might have carried such an interest in it.

And Charles needed Elsie to know that.

"I see," She remarked, the tone neutral enough to keep any reaction well out of sight, "Well, let's not delay your return any further, not if we want that reading to go ahead."

"Indeed." He easily agreed, pleased that she hadn't dismissed his interest in continuing to read it. A dismissal would've subtly implied the woman had no desire in continuing their little ritual, something he didn't care to consider even if he would respect it. But that she even went so far as to suggest that the reading would go ahead, _that_ did wonders.

Turning to follow the beckoning woman as she began to guide him back down stairs he'd been craving to traverse for some time now, Charles forced himself to remember to breathe as he began to head back downstairs. Now was, after all, the moment they'd been preparing for over these last few days.

_Right._

It was time to give it all a go, just the two of them.

_Two Minutes Before The Return_

"Please, allow me."

Grasping the metal handle with a sense of delight, Charles' hand instinctively recognizing the touch of that metal, it was with great anticipation that the butler reverently opened the door leading to the downstairs –– his eyes trailing over every inch of glass and wood that would soon reveal his old home. Pausing at the sight that awaited them, knowing that a great change would come upon them once they took to those final steps, the man stopped once more –– wanting to take a moment to revel in _finally_ being back.

"We could always say you had a relapse," Her murmur was meant to reassure him, the woman possibly thinking that fear was holding him back from venturing any further. But, fear was nowhere in sight for this.

And, with the beautiful sight before him, he needed little reassurance. 

"There's no need for that." Though, briefly eyeing his companion, Charles wondered if a relapse meant they'd be able to share even more time together, just her and him far away from anyone and anything.

But he couldn't afford such thoughts, not in this particular instance.

"Shall we, then?"

The housekeeper nodded, ever the professional, beginning to make her way down the final flight. He himself wanted more a few more seconds to enjoy this –– his returning at last, getting the continual pleasure of having Elsie by his side, all of it –– before finally beginning to take those last few steps that would bring him back home.

Unfortunately, his homecoming was not entirely smooth.

They were halfway down the steps when a sense of something halted Charles' in his tracks. A sense of something he hadn't been expecting so soon, a collision with recollections that only slammed a sense of confusion within him. Conversations that had once been held in this very space –– petty arguments, reverent elaborations, sharp warnings, knowing teases, tetchy bickerings, terse instructions –– all floated out of sight, ruthlessly echoing about him. Flickers of old interactions bolted past him, various occasions sprinting by at this particular juncture. Ghosts of footmen whisking away the delicacies prepared for dinners, kitchen maids scurrying past to avoid the wrath of Mrs. Patmore, more and more personal encounters sprang to life with each step.

In short, Charles needed a moment to come to terms with the disconcerting familiarity of everything.

"Mr. Carson?" Without thinking, Elsie reached out a hand for him to hold onto –– completely forgetting that anyone could see them at this point. Her friend took it unquestioningly, shaking the urge to shudder at the unexpected onslaught. It was indistinguishable what was piercing his mind, "Is everything all right?"

The butler looked to be only capable of breathing, staring down something indiscernible, oblivious to the passage of time. She herself only realized they were holding hands when footsteps crept into the space above them, the grumbling protests of Sarah O'Brien from a flight above slapping them back into reality as the lady's maid began to draw closer and closer.

"Everything's all right, Mrs. Hughes." Mr. Carson quietly reassured her, gently letting go of her hand before the Irish woman could spot them. After watching him internally panic, the housekeeper didn't really care what the other woman could've seen, this little scene disconcerting enough to shake off any thoughts of impropriety. Long before this scare, the fact that they had to traverse _stairs_ came to mind for the woman –– causing her to maintain hyper-vigilance throughout the journey.

Simply put, even though these weren't the stairs that led to the cellar, even though these were not the steps that caused her friend's collapsed, they were still stairs.

And stairs of any kind were something Elsie Hughes did _not_ care for as of late.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," O'Brien barged past them, looking to be oblivious to the subtleties of their interaction. Perhaps the servant was only acting indifferently. Perhaps the woman was truly so caught up in whatever was in her mind she genuinely paid them no mind. Either way, Elsie considered them lucky that there were no questions asked and that no one else was around.

She glanced back at the man, silently asking her friend if she should really be the one to lead this moment. She supposed it might help him if he took charge of where they walked, wanting to give him the chance to do so if he felt this would make a difference. Mr. Carson only silently encouraged her to carry on, gesturing for her to continue. She did as such, paying close attention to the fact that he nearly stumbled upon finally stepping into the official downstairs territory.

Something was whirling around his mind, that was for sure. Something she'd like to question him about, but had to refrain from mentioning in this public space.

Elsie looked back once more, knowing that this would be one of their last chances to do something before the day had its way with them. But, the man only looked more resolved to face it all and keep going –– prompting her to guide him toward their first destination:

His pantry.

_Forty-Five Seconds After The Return_

Never before until he stepped into his pantry did Charles Carson ever understand what it felt like to return to something after many years. He had wanted to classify that moment on the stairs as "jarring". But, in light of what he felt upon entering this room, "jarring" felt like a terribly inadequate description.

Charles knew right away what his pantry was supposed to have looked like a decade ago, distorted images of the past rising to meld into what he saw before him. A few objects had been adjusted in the room, some papers long since gone, but everything was as marvelously meticulous as it'd been at the start of his career as butler.

Though, there was something out of place: "I had left the ledger back on the desk, Mr. Carson. It's where it was when I'd found it, and I didn't want to presume to know where it belonged."

He smiled at Elsie's thoughtfulness, knowing that not many in this world carried that level of consideration. Still, hearing her refer to him in that fashion was disheartening. Even though, much like her decision with the ledger, it was logical.

"I also couldn't help but think," She began to add in a distant tone, distracted by the sight of the records, "That it might trigger something if you were to see it where it'd been left behind."

"Well, your reasoning makes perfect sense." Placing _Jane Eyre_ on the desk by the ledger's side, he picked up the journal. Luckily, he didn't have to give any thought as to where the records belonged in the room. Putting away the wine ledger was an old habit long since burned into his muscles; he would've been able to perform the task in his sleep.

"I take it everything's come back, then?"

Charles turned around the second he completed his task, trying to understand what the woman was thinking in this moment. Her voice was still decidedly neutral, the impartial tone making it difficult for him to understand her. Was she relieved they no longer had to spend company in his room, tucked away from the world? Was she hoping for a return for the way things were, before he'd mistaken her as his wife? Was she disappointed in his ineptitude to fully recover?

"Not quite," The man answered honestly, closely eyeing her if only to further ascertain where her mind was. "But there's progress."

She seemed disappointed at this, revealing why in a matter of seconds: "I'm sorry I couldn't be of any real assistance to you, Mr. Carson."

_Oh, Elsie._

"Mrs. Hughes," He wouldn't shamelessly beg or petulantly plead for her to forgive herself on this matter, but he wouldn't keep letting her beat herself up for something she couldn't control, "Without you, there wouldn't have been nearly as much progress –– something I for one am grateful for."

She gave a faint nod at this, unconvinced.

He could only sigh at the action, hoping that one day they'd both be able to understand one another –– whether that was when it came to his beliefs or her feelings.

_Forty Minutes After The Return_

Breakfast was a dizzying affair, the faces before him both familiar and decidedly not. O'Brien, who had scarcely aged over the last ten years, looked indubitably out of place amongst the new faces scattered around her. There was that blonde servant that'd found him with Elsie –– Anna, was it? –– seated nearby an older man Charles had a curiously good feeling about. On the other hand, the younger man –– Tobias? Timothy? Something along those lines, if he remembered what Elsie'd said –– occupying the seat next to O'Brien did not conjure up any sort of a good feeling.

However, the blonde boy seated to his left –– a footman by the name of either Wendell or William –– _did_ bring out another sense of trust. He looked to be far more innocent than the dark-haired man, far more like someone Charles would've liked to have personally mentored. Maybe he did mentor the boy. At the very least, he hoped he helped the boy in some capacity, though he'd have to ask Elsie at some point.

Which, speaking of the housekeeper of Downton, Charles couldn't help but feel innately relieved that her status in the house meant that she was seated right beside him. It really did help to make this ordeal feel a little bit easier to manage, if he were to be honest. He could fake a cordial conversation as well as anyone, already beginning to furtively catch the names of all who sat at the table. But, knowing she was only inches away helped to maintain his balance about the matter.

It also helped that she knew the precise amount of marmalade with which to spread on his toast.

_Two Hours After The Return_

"Now, as you no doubt remember, I'm only a little ways away," Elsie had watched in relief as Mr. Carson managed his way through breakfast, needing little provocation in regards to making it through in once piece. And with him in plain sight, everyone was as well-behaved as they could be, the morale of the house instantly lifting, her relief only expanded. She felt as though she could have carried on sitting right beside him –– having nothing to fear when it came to this part of the day. However, she couldn't remain by his side forever. Not if they wanted to actually achieve anything of importance today. "Though I don't think you'll need me once you get going."

"Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie took another half-hearted glimpse in his direction, distracted by something in his tone. It was something that she noticed before this morning, but she couldn't quite place at the time.

Now, though, now it was beginning to click into place.

From the first moment they'd interacted with one another today, he'd followed her lead when it came to formality. No matter where they were, no matter who was around, she maintained a strict control over formality –– not needing either of them to slip now that everything was going back to the way it was before. That meant they were back to being the strict Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson, that a wall of propriety and standards obscured them from the rest of the world.

Yet something was not quite the way it had been.

And, until this moment, she couldn't pinpoint what had changed.

It had been his own formality. His tone sounded different, changed. The way he addressed her today sounded peculiar, as though every time he called her "Mrs. Hughes" he was really referring to her as "Elsie".

She had really thought that all of those silly dreams of theirs –– the names, the romantic impressions, the _kiss_ –– would've been put to a stop, especially once her friend officially returned to the downstairs. She'd even anticipated waking up to a stern butler, one who was unapologetically against any such mentioning of what had transpired last week.

That she instead crossed paths with a dear friend who continued to enjoy her company, someone who was perfectly understanding of formality but no longer chose to be strictly compliant with all of their customs… well, it was something she couldn't quite comprehend.

"Well, I best be off."

"Are you're sure, Mrs. Hughes?"

Oh, he had no idea what power those eyes of his had when it came to stopping in her tracks. And, to be honest, Elsie wasn't sure of anything anymore. But, if she didn't leave now, they'd get nowhere. And they certainly couldn't afford that, now could they?

"Quite sure, Mr. Carson."

_Four-and-a-Half Hours After The Return_

Although his mind seemed to exist in a tenuous form of existence –– Charles remembered much of the knowledge and habits formed over the last decade, he just couldn't connect any of it to tangible memories –– he refused to let that deter him in continuing his work. In fact, and this did feel a little atypical for the man, he was using this lapse as a chance to approach his work from a new perspective.

His newfound truth, the cause behind this new perspective, was simple: Elsie's confession last night might've once convinced him to retreat from the world; however, once she'd started admitting everything, Charles couldn't help but feel as though this were all a second chance. That he was being given an opportunity to refine the life he'd grown accustomed to and live it the way he truly wanted to.

As such, although he wanted to spend these next few weeks re-familiarizing himself with everything, he also wanted to challenge himself to rethink the possibilities. He would not relinquish his standards, he would merely set to improve the mind-set behind said standards.

Of course, this amount of change required a great deal of thought and consideration.

Hence, why Charles had taken a break from studying every crevice and written record within his pantry. Instead, the man had decided to take a break by inspecting and selecting the silver, wanting to decide what should be used for tonight's dinner service. Ever since Elsie reminded him about polishing and maintaining the silver, his heart craved to see it all in-person –– knowing that this task was one of his personal favourites. That she'd kept him from sneaking down before today only added to this desire.

_Right then._ No use in letting his thoughts wander down _that_ path, the one involving Elsie and desire. That wasn't what the situation called for. And if Charles ignored what the situation called for, he'd wind up getting nothing accomplished and quite possibly revealing himself to be quite a fool, something he had no interest in whatsoever.

So it was with an air of immense concentration that the butler brought tonight's selection of silver back to his pantry for further examination. Upon doing so, the butler found those old mercurial overtones of familiarity –– the same sensations that'd stalked him all throughout these latest days –– dissipating. It seemed that, once he started to sort out these particular details again, his mind became focused solely on the task at hand and could genuinely invest itself in this matter.

In fact, so accustomed to this task was he that, as he carried on with it, the man found himself humming a familiar tune.

It'd been subconscious at first, a trickle of noise that'd steadily progressed into a rivulet of sound as he continued. Something that Charles wouldn't be able to grasp if he gave it too much thought, but something that was also begging to be remembered.

"'Twas on a Monday morning," The words came to the forefront of existence as his eyes skimmed the silver before him, "And there I saw my––" _No, that's not quite right._

"'Twas on a Monday morning," He quietly started again, letting his grip on both the situation and the silver relax, knowing he'd get nowhere if he pushed himself too much. He'd done that all of last week and had hardly anything to show for it. "When I beheld my darling,"

Blinking at himself, a disbelieving huff escaping the man at the sound of the correct lyrics coming forth, "She looked so neat and charming," Gazing into the divinely polished metal before him, softening his gaze as the right words began to hover before him, "In every high degree."

Charles couldn't help but give an appreciative smile to the moment, continuing to gradually let the words emerge from that old abyss, that tainted emptiness of memory he'd once feared, "She looked so neat and–– looked so neat and nimble, oh," Now determinedly picking up the strands of music vividly threading themselves in his mind, "A-washing out her linen, oh,"

He was nearly there, could almost taste the words as they gently came back to him.

"Dashing away with the smoothing iron," The next line of sentiment protruded from thin air, prompting him to stop. He turned his attention away from the silver, glancing in the direction of a certain sitting room. Singing this was indeed an old tradition, this particular song brought on by thinking of a wonderful woman who was only a short distance away, "Dashing away with the smoothing iron, she stole my heart away."

Beaming at another comprehension, the man briefly closed his eyes in recognition of this blessed familiarity –– more blurs of recollection continuing to careen around him in the stillness. Standing here like so, whittling away at tasks whilst basking in this quiet love for her, he'd already been doing this for many years.

And if life were willing, he'd keep on doing as such for many more.

_Sixteen Hours After The Return_

Elsie was not worried. She wasn't concerned in the slightest. She knew very well that Mr. Carson was mostly recovered. _Somewhat_ mostly recovered, that is. Still, whatever memory he hadn't officially recovered would soon be picked up again. Yes, there was no reason for her to wonder if the dinner service went well, if her friend had been ready to return so soon, if she hadn't been making a tremendous mistake by insisting things return to the way they once were.

_Liar_ , that wretchedly traitorous part of her mind snipped, causing the woman to sharply look away from what she'd been staring at. Fortunately, the specks of dust that'd made their way onto her table took little, if any, offense .

_Elsie Hughes,_ the woman began to reprimand herself, unable to believe that she was this bothered by the situation, _relax!_ He'd remembered the cutlery, he was catching onto the names of their subordinates fast enough, he was much more confident than he'd been only a few days ago, and––

And his familiar footsteps were _finally_ approaching her sitting room.

Straightening up in her seat, busying herself by rearranging some papers, she caught the sound of a detour. The butler apparently needed to stop in his pantry before arriving here.

_My, my_ , a dark thought began to whisper, _Suppose he's no intention of dropping by after all? Suppose he_ _ **has**_ _fully recovered everything, including his common sense?_

Elsie had been touched by his resolve to remain friends. That he'd heard her out and that he'd still wanted to hold to that promise of theirs. In all honesty, she was floored that he hadn't demanded she leave the Abbey at once for such treatment. However, that being said, she wouldn't be surprised if standing in those grand halls once again –– if the sight of the dinner and everything that came with it –– brought his thoughts back to normalcy.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

His initial knock finally registered with her, the housekeeper's gaze darting in the direction of the doorway. Mr. Carson had been standing right outside for some time now, the butler looking at her with great concern ever since he'd approached the room.

"My apologies, Mr. Carson," An excuse was on the tip of her tongue, something to distract from her lack of attention. But she didn't want to make excuses to him, not after everything. "How did it all go?"

Taking that as his cue to enter the room, he'd stepped over the threshold and quietly took his customary spot at her table. She raised an eyebrow at this, tiredly wondering for the millionth time if this action meant he finally remembered. But when the movement only looked to be an ingrained habit with no explanation attached, she resignedly got up from her spot to join him at the table –– convinced that he'd never recover any of the memories, not at this rate.

"Well, if you must know," Mr. Carson was giving nothing away with those words, no sounds of success _or_ failure, drawing her curiosity further and further into the conversation. Ten days ago, at this hour, she would've received a straightforward report, not the synopsis to a novel.

"Go on."

The man was being nearly incorrigible, maintaining a surprisingly good poker face as he looked to think about how best to break the news of dinner. Did that mean it went brilliantly and he was merely holding out the suspense? Had he panicked, ruined the whole thing, and needed a moment to think his mistakes through?

Normally, Elsie would've been able to read him well enough to know the truth within heartbeats. However, whatever was once normal for the butler looked to have collapsed down the stairs the same moment he did. And now, with all the peculiarities of the week –– his talk of their marriage, her continuing to realize he was a changed man, this newfound level of intimacy between them –– she felt she could no longer assume anything when it came to Charles Carson.

"Well," He began again, oblivious to the fact that she wanted to speed the conversation along and reach the conclusion.

_Yes?_

She saw it in his eyes only seconds before he announced the truth. Noticed with a sense of anticipation that there were flickers of something marvelous in his eyes, something that informed her, "Everything was a success!"

_Thank God!_ "Oh, that's wonderful news, Charles!" The words flew into the air before she had a chance to think them through, the sound only encouraging his grin to widen further. She herself wanted to smack herself for such a foolish slip, needing to work on that habit and unable to believe she'd called him that. "My apologies, Mr. Carson: I seemed to have forgotten myself."

He shook his head, dismissing the apology outright, "Actually, Mrs. Hughes, I had been wondering if you wouldn't object to using our Christian names again –– only in private, that is."

"You mean you want us to speak as though we were still," Elsie paused, unable to finish her thought. Why would he want to continue walking that perilous slope now that they both knew the truth?

"Do I mean that I want to speak as though we were still friends willing to see each day together?" The man finished the statement, mollifying her at once long before he said, "Yes."

Friendship or not, it was a bold proposition. But, the longer Elsie thought it over, the more she felt it made sense. If she'd lost as much as he had, she'd probably be more cavalier about certain traditions like terms of address.

As it stood, she'd honestly been slipping when it came to his name all day. At breakfast, after putting marmalade on his toast, she'd almost teasingly called him "Charlie" as she watched him recall how delicious the treat truly was. And when he locked himself away in his pantry, no doubt going over every possible detail he could, she'd had half a mind to tell Charles–– _See, you've done it again, silly girl!_

"But, that's only what I'd like. What would you like?"

She really needed to stop getting caught up in her thoughts.

"I'd like that very much," In retrospect, that was far more risqué a remark than his request had been. But when the ceiling hadn't come crashing down at the sentiment, when his expression only brightened at her words, Elsie could only suppose it was all right. Still, when she realized he needed a little extra encouragement to trust in her response, "I mean that, Charles."

"I'm glad to hear it, Elsie." Her small smile grew at this, her heart having missed being called that. It was as silly as her thoughts from moments ago, especially considering it'd only been a day since he'd stopped calling her that, but the woman rather liked hearing her Christian name spoken in such a fashion.

"So, would you like to tell me about the dinner?" The twinkle in his eyes radiated delight at this, steadily glowing brighter than any light in the room.

"I would. But before I forget, I'd like to ask," Unveiling _Jane Eyre_ practically from thin air –– when had he been able to sneak _that_ into her room? –– he questioningly looked back at her, "Would you be interested if we continued reading afterwards?"

Once again touched by the sentiment, a strange sensation taking over at the sight of that book in his hands, Elsie nodded her consent. She'd never understood the pleasure that came with book clubs before, having heard her Ladyship and others discuss the idea with little appreciation. She herself had neither the money to invest in enough books nor the patience to deal with such subjective conversations. Now, however, the idea of sharing this book together enticed her far more than she could have ever imagined.

"I would be interested, yes. But, as you said: there'll be time for that later. Let's hear about your successful dinner," Surely, he was more interested in talking about _that_! "And then we'll continue to hear more of Jane's tale."

"Right." A hint of the butler she knew very well came back as his posture evened out, the man preparing himself to tell the tale, "Well, interestingly enough, there was someone I recognized at once –– someone besides you and his Lordship, of course."

Elsie nodded, knowingly answering the unspoken riddle, "And just how was the Dowager tonight?"

The man chuckled, pleased the woman knew as to whom he was referring to, "Seeing her again was quite a treat! She really hasn't aged a day, Elsie, I mean it," _I'm sure you do._ "Though, speaking of age, I must confess: I was floored by Lady Mary's growth as a young woman!" _Of course you were. Why am I not surprised?_ "The last time I saw her, she'd been about this tall and was in the process of explaining how the broken vase in the drawing room was most certainly _not_ her fault…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Once again, thank you for your patience and your continued support! The next update should come in about 3-5 days and will definitely include some of the suggestions given, if not hints of all the suggestions :)
> 
> In any case, as always, I hope you enjoyed this and have a lovely day!


	8. The Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings and salutations everyone! Thank you once again for being a part of this journey –– hope you enjoy this next installment of this little story!

_Twenty-One Days Before The Fall_

It'd been one of their rare half-days, a simple occasion she seldom took for herself. But he had convinced her they could afford it. And she hadn't really needed any persuasion, having been delighted to partake in his company away from the world of the Abbey once the suggestion came tumbling out of his mouth.

Elsie had been busy in her sitting room, tidying up her station so as to be able to effortlessly return to any necessary tasks, when a mindless thought ambled into her mind. It hadn't been anything special. Just an inkling that, oh yes, she'd happily take half-days with him at any point in life. That she wouldn't mind spending a fair portion of her time with him for the rest of her time on this earth, and that it didn't have to be entirely in a platonic fashion.

Fortunately, his sudden knock on the door distracted her before any other inklings came stumbling along.

_Seventeen Days Before The Fall_

Charles had found the picture entirely by accident, having been meticulously scouring through all of his personal belongings. It'd initially taken him a few weeks to fully readjust to the duties that came with being a butler. After that distressing period of time, he spent another couple of weeks fine-tuning said duties –– reaching out to each of the footmen, including Thomas, to see if they were interested in learning more about the craft. This was partially to see if the footmen had anything to offer in way of refinement, however, refinement had not been the only cause of this.

The man had learned that, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was not guaranteed to stay on this earth forever. And as much as he may have once been expected to remain tied to this job for as long as possible, he could no longer say as such. Consequently, whether it was due to a fatal collapse or personal choice to retire, Charles did not want his expertise and knowledge to be hidden away from those who would eventually need it. Hence, it'd become important to teach the intricacies of the tasks and gradually delegate said tasks accordingly. The butler would still be in charge of every decision and he would ensure everything was running as smoothly as it could –– he would just also be ensuring that there was a contingency plan in case anything were to go wrong.

Once those teachings had begun, it'd taken another month or so to maintain a firm grasp on the situation, to find comfort in these new routines. Then and only then would he begin to scour what little personal belongings he had, searching for more clues of his past. This scouring was more so for Elsie's sake than his, the man feeling content to let his past go by this point. If he couldn't remember it, was it truly worth remembering?

Still, whether she said it or not, he knew Elsie wanted him to keep trying.

So, for her sake, he would.

Which is how Charles came to be grasping this old picture once again, staring it down with more than a hint of remorse. He'd stumbled upon it entirely by accident, having been sifting through various old papers with faint curiosity. But, once it had revealed himself to him, the image burned in his mind more strongly than any fire ever could.

_Alice._

She was someone he'd known for quite some time. And he hadn't forgotten her because of any amnesia. No, he'd forgotten Alice, had let her drift out of his life, because he had moved on. Had moved on from her ill treatment of him and toward better things.

Or, at least, he had pretended to move on.

And then, of course, he actually did.

The man now recognized that, at the time it'd happened, her choice to choose Charlie over him had been too painful to contemplate. That her poor treatment of him had unintentionally pushed him to devote himself toward his work. She was partially why he'd been thorough in enforcing his standards as the butler of Downton, why he maintained the strictest of decorum from the beginning. Alice Neal's decision had caused enough pain for him, had caused enough regret and turmoil, that he would never let such a similar moment impact his time at Downton.

But then Elsie came along. And then the pain began to ebb. And though the joy her presence brought him would never erase everything Alice bequeathed him, the current housekeeper had made a difference. The woman hadn't pressed him in any fashion for anything other than honesty and standards, something he inordinately appreciated. She'd never made any advances over the years, never pushed him beyond his capabilities even when she challenged him to change with the times.

And as the years went on, the more he realized he'd been grateful for Alice's rejection.

Because if it hadn't been for that, he would never have gotten to know Elsie.

_Fifteen Days Before The Fall_

Elsie scoffed at the sight of that straw doll from the fair, unwilling to believe she hadn't given it away by this point. It was true that there was once a time when that token meant another life. When it symbolized a life she might've experienced if she'd only turned left instead of right, if she'd accepted Joe instead of maintaining her job at Downton.

And, yes, she might very well have spent many hours pondering such a life, contemplating what might've happened to Elsie Burns in all this time. But if she'd learned anything from these months of late, it was that she truly had changed. The idea of going to the fair with Joe now seemed distasteful, almost dishonest considering how her feelings had changed. She may have once looked at this token with fondness, but all she felt now was a sense of detachment.

But, what if someone _else_ had given it to her?

What if a dear friend had accompanied her that evening, played all those fair games by her side, publicly walked along the crowds arm-in-arm? What if he had been the one who'd won her that doll, who gifted it to her before spending a pleasant evening in the pub?

Really, the more she thought about it, the more Elsie realized it would've been indescribably lovely to have gone to the fair with Charles. Strolling about together, letting go of their positions for one night to live more than they had in years, she could easily see it now. She could their arms linked, the air tinged with a certain intimacy, chattering with one another with a quiet resolve to thoroughly enjoy one another's company as much as they could. There might've even been more than conversation. There easily could've been a kiss in moonlight, a––

_Don't go there._

_Do_ _**not** _ _go there._

Feeling her grasp on the doll inexplicably tighten, frustration rolled to the surface of the woman's mind. She thought the silly inkling had been dealt with on their latest half-day, that the issue had been managed. They were only friends and that's all they were going to be. That's all they could be with their positions, and–– and if she were being entirely honest, friendship was only a small part of what she wanted them to be.

Elsie sighed to herself, frustrated by it all. These months, for all the pain and uncertainty they'd dragged in, had been wonderful. She wouldn't trade any of it for all the treasures in the world, the nightly readings, the half-days spent together, the cellar visits, the brief moments where hands were shared and intimacy was held, none of it.

So, with that in mind, why would she risk all of that wonder for something that went against propriety and standards? Why would she risk their newfound trust for something he would surely regret? No, her feelings about them may have changed, but she was content with where they were. She would not mention this anytime soon. She would take what she already had and treasure their relationship as it stood: a wonderful testament to friendship and love.

And, in order to do that, she needed to get rid of that doll. If it stayed around here, it would taunt her resolve, remind her of what could've been if she'd managed to trek down another path. She'd no doubt get stuck in the suffering it brought, trapped in the painful reminders it carried.

So, no, that doll had to go.

It was with a sense of building vexation that she curled a hand around that old token, glared at it for everything it caused, and hurled it into the nearest bin in her room. Nodding to herself at the action, huffing out a sense of relief that the wretched thing was taken care of, she indulged in one final stare at the doll before resolving to leave that manner well alone. She'd properly take it out to trash later. Might even consider donating it, if she were feeling generous.

But, for now, that action alone was enough to satisfy the woman.

Because, surely, that doll's little tumble into the trash meant that all of this was over?

_Eleven Days Before The Fall_

Alice's picture had been tucked away, buried underneath a tidy stack of papers, for days now. Yet the truth was that, no matter where it was hidden, her image would stay with him. Those memories would stalk his mind, those recollections taunting him whenever they could.

Except, that wasn't really the truth, now was it?

Oh, that's not to say he was unaware of the picture's presence. Nor was that to say that he was no longer taunted by his past. Only that its presence ceased to be as painful a reminder as it once had been.

Picking up the picture once again, Charles noticed that a sense of detachment had come over him every time he looked at it lately. Alice, much as he had loved her, was much like that abyss that still hung over him to this day –– a part of his life he couldn't hold onto and a part of his life he was coming to terms with.

Sighing to himself, the man briefly contemplated asking Elsie if she would be so inclined as to give him a picture to keep. But that was dismissed in seconds. He knew that something as intimate as a picture would be too much to ask. No doubt she'd be scandalized by the very idea, finding it to be too much to ask of a friend.

But, did she _really_ see them as friends? After everything they'd gone through, was it only friendship she saw for them?

He could still hear her words from that night, the sentiment having reverberated around his thoughts ever since she'd spoken them.

" _To be honest, as foolish as it may be for me to say, I did enjoy this little secret, this little dream…"_

If she'd been disgusted with him, if she'd felt inveigled, manipulated, surely she would have said as such? She wouldn't have quietly admitted those vulnerable statements to him, wouldn't have hesitated to be blunt about the matter.

And then the part that haunted his memories on a nightly basis –– " _There's no legitimate explanation for why I've done what I've done, why I've felt…. But, none of that matters now."_ –– pervaded his senses, reminding him that there were still some unanswered questions. That he might not ever get those answers, that he might not ever have the chance to tell Elsie what she really meant to him.

So, in lieu of his confession, Charles settled for the next best thing:

He let the image drop out of his hands and into his trash bin. The man knew he'd have to properly dispose of the item later, that he couldn't chance Thomas or O'Brien crossing paths with it in his pantry.

But, for now, the act of letting it go was enough.

Because, surely, letting it go meant that all of this old pain was over?

_Two Days Before The Fall_

"'"Doesn't she know?" I heard the woman whisper.'" Elsie closed her eyes at the sound of his enchanting timbre bringing those words to life, having never heard _Jane Eyre_ sound so captivating. She'd read it enough times to recite many of the words by heart, but she'd never heard this sort of emphasis, this sort of life given to the book. And that _he_ was the one reading it… well, let's just say a tornado could be destroying the house right now and she would be perfectly _oblivious_. "'Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course dropped. All I had gathered from it amounted to this –– that there was a mystery at Thornfield; and that from participation in that mystery, I was purposefully excluded.'"

Her eyes remained happily shut even as the bookmark was delicately placed inside the novel, the man gently closing the book with a soft smile. That was as far as they were getting tonight, trudging through the novel at quite the speed all things considered.

Honestly, the more they did this, tucked away from the rest of the world, the more she realized she could get used to this. Could get used to unveiling mysteries with him, both the literary kind and the others. She had no right to, but that didn't stop her from recognizing the truth that she would very much like to. If anything, it only spurred the woman into realizing she couldn't toss these inklings of hers away. She needed to speak up about this, needed to be honest with him about the truth for a second time in almost as many months.

"What do you suppose Thornfield's mystery is, Elsie?"

"Charles," Well, she didn't have to tell him everything this very instant, now did she? Not if he just willingly dove into the story! "I can't share my thoughts if I already know the answer!"

"Can't you?"

_Absolutely incorrigible, this one is._

Completely aware of the mirth in his twinkling eyes, equally aware that she was choosing to be a coward tonight, "Well, if you _must_ know,"

_I certainly do._

_Nine Minutes Before The Fall_

Elsie Hughes had been whittling away at any details she could, trying her best to clear this week's responsibilities, when a gentle knock brushed up against her door. She may have been distracted by the work for the last hour or so, but that particular knock brought an end to that immediately: the manner of knocking, considerate and almost sweet in nature, indicating not only who the person was but the good mood they were experiencing.

Which only served to put her in a far better mood than she'd been in all morning.

Smiling to both herself and the friend who had just shut the door behind him, "Good morning, Charles –– if it still _is_ morning."

Elsie had long since stopped blushing at the sound of their Christian names by mid-October, having begun to find it to be a delightful habit among their other budding traditions. In the depths of November, however, she wondered about the wisdom behind it.

"It is still morning," The man reassured her, causing her smile to widen. _So, we're right on time._ Oh, yes, Elsie wasn't ignorant to the reasons behind his current presence. Why should she be, when this was a weekly tradition of theirs? "And I was wondering, when we finish with the cellar, if you might join me on a walk into the village? There's some errands I'd like to run before it gets too cold."

She nodded, craving fresh crisp autumn air after being cooped up all week, "Luckily for you, I've a few errands I need to run as well."

Charles chuckled at this, having hoped she'd be agreeable. It pleased him that she also looked to be in good spirits despite her work. And that she'd not rolled her eyes, having every right to dismiss what was a pitiful excuse to spend more time in her company, only increased his own peace of mind. So, turning to the door, "Shall we then?"

"We shall." At the sound of those four words, the sentiment having never changed after all this time, the butler couldn't help but feel his fondness for the situation grow, watching her gracefully stand up and start organizing the desk. He himself could only remain in his place, continuing to commit this image to mind as he did with all the others. Hundreds of scenes just like this, scenes that ranged from the tender to the silly, floated to the forefront of his mind as he quietly continued to observe.

"Charles?" She'd approached him after a moment, having tidied her desk as best she could. And staring up at him in curiosity, "Where've you wandered to?"

"Nowhere." The man beamed right back at her, candidly speaking from the heart, "I've not wandered anywhere because there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

She blushed at response, muttering something about his being a daft man among other things. Luckily, Charles had learned that such a response was a code for expressing her fondness. That it meant she was flattered by the praise and, quite possibly, beginning to believe his sentiment after all this time.

He certainly hoped so.

Though, whether she understood or not, the man looked forward to continuing to show what he meant. That, memory or no, she could trust his affection for her would never diminish.

More importantly, he hoped that she came to realize that he carried far more than affection for her.

Better still, he hoped that she felt the same.

"Well, let's not keep the cellar waiting." Elsie suggested after a moment, feeling as though she could remain in close proximity with her friend for far too long if they continued.

He nodded in agreement but made no movement to change the situation.

Inwardly sighing to herself, knowing that it was on her this time to get them going, Elsie glanced in the direction of the door. There were dismaying revelations from before coming to mind: in particular, that she had to tell the truth if she couldn't stop her feelings, that she was clearly unable to repress a thing, and that it was a terrible idea to be this close before she revealed everything.

Still, she didn't particularly want to leave behind this close proximity, this simple intimacy between them.

Yet staying like this would not bode well for their future together.

So, the woman managed to step away from him and closer to the door, beckoning him to follow.

_Just how had this weekly venture even started?_ She'd briefly wondered that to herself, beginning to step out into the hallway and face their latest task.

_Oh, that's right_ : it'd been entirely due to her and her incessant fear about that blasted cellar.

Weeks ago, more than two months by this point, Charles had approached her in order to inform the housekeeper he was taking a foray back into the cellar. He'd briefly –– as brief as her friend could be, at any rate –– explained how he'd been putting off the task for no apparent reason and only wished to let her know that's where he was heading.

No apparent reason, indeed! Well, she couldn't leave it at that. Before he'd made his way back down those steps, she found herself offering to accompany him. She hadn't offered an explanation at the time, being rather unsure as to if there was a good excuse to make, but he didn't question it. Instead, the man accepted the offer on the spot.

And then, that next week, he'd mentioned journeying into the cellar again.

And, once more, she offered to accompany him.

After a time, her friend stopped asking and merely showed up at her door –– the question still lingering in his eyes. Elsie had only arched an eyebrow in view of this hesitation, immediately abandoning her work and joining his side with a quip meant to assure that this was an acceptable habit to make.

Yes, well, by now she could trust him to boldly venture into her least favourite part of the house without falling prey to a terrible fate.

That didn't stop her from accompanying him almost every time he asked.

Approaching the entrance to the cellar with a wary air, Elsie glanced in the direction of Charles for comfort. It was foolish, really, but she found that a glance at him reminded her there was nothing to fear. She would occasionally do as such when his memory loss proved to be painfully apparent and she always did as such at this particular juncture, discreetly eyeing him to remember that he was alive and well despite the horrid odds. Moreover, she always made sure to keep her gaze a secret, not needing him to think any of it.

This time, however, Charles was aware of her subtle glancing. Maybe he'd always known about it. Either way, today he met her eyes with a knowing look and held her gaze, slowing down in his approach toward the cellar. In turn, she came to a stop and continued to gaze up at him, transfixed long before she knew it.

They were tucked away from the rest of the house here, out of sight from any incessant eavesdroppers and irritating busybodies. Indeed, in the haze of daylight, she could almost pretend as though they were the only two in the house –– the placid atmosphere settling over them easily, blanketing any thoughts or concerns with nary an effort.

"Well then," If Elsie wasn't careful, this inadvertent staring contest of theirs would end up causing them to miss an entire day's worth of work. Worse still, she might find herself acting in a fashion entirely unbecoming and beyond inappropriate. Really, she just needed to tell him everything."We won't get anything done by standing here."

"Indeed."

For a second time that day, he didn't move.

Once again, neither did she.

But, hang on a moment, was he _closer_ than he'd been a minute ago?

"Right." Well, they'd certainly be losing two days' worth of work by now! They'd certainly have to part ways if they wanted to ensure any of their duties for the day were fulfilled, let alone those errands of theirs.

Unwittingly biting her lip, Elsie couldn't help but begin to feel as though it hardly mattered. She remained where she was, her gaze ducking away for a moment as she fought to push down the risqué thoughts coming to mind. Even though she'd made a resolution to tell him of her feelings, to put all of her cards on the table and let whatever happen next occur, this was not the time nor place to do so.

Besides, she was sure to ruin their friendship if she did more than merely tell the man the truth.

And yet when she looked back up at Charles, wondering what on earth she ought to do, all thoughts vanished. In seconds she realized his gaze was being drawn to her lips –– the realization sparking another idea she did not want to protest.

Blushing at what felt like a highly indecorous moment, the woman was distracted by the sense of pain coming from biting her lip more so than normal. With that pain came further contemplations, more ideas that kept her stuck in the land of overthinking. Telling him now might be their best option, except it wasn't in private and he might not be prepared to hear it. On the other hand, would saying nothing truly be the best course of action? It didn't feel like it. And, of course, doing something more audacious than a verbal admission to inform the man, an idea her traitorous mind was all for, was certainly out of the question.

So, what did that leave her with for options?

"I really don't like it when you do that, Elsie." His confession garnered her full attention, the words loaded with something that pulled all of her prior contemplation away, "I really don't like it when you worry at all."

She gave a faint chuckle at this, needing to tease the man so as to lighten the mood, stall the conversation, and figure out what to do next, "And do you have any suggestions for it?"

No doubt he would splutter about the matter, being insulted by the cheeky tease in her tone that toyed with flirtation. And once he recovered, he would set about giving her some sort of well-meaning advice she'd undoubtedly ignore. Better still, the butler would shake his head in disbelief and tell her it was a pointless endeavour to advise her on the matter, gruffly stating that they ought to get back to work –– something that she could and would force herself to readily agree to.

Truly, he would never in a million years continue to intently stare at her like he had those first few nights after the fall. He also would not have dared to take a step closer as an inexplicable tenderness descended upon them. She herself would not have ever let her jaw lower in shock at this, watching as his hand soon rose to gently cup her cheek –– a shiver of delight running down her spine at the blissful sensation.

"I _do_ have a suggestion or two." _With your permission, that is._

That shiver was soon joined by another, the unspoken consent given as she herself found herself leaning into him, absorbing the delightful contact that came with finally touching him. There were no fears of position or concerns over decorum to be found here, not now. Only a sense of authenticity, an atmosphere that crackled with instinctive, honest reassurance.

"Go on." _Yes._

It was only supposed to be a gentle kiss, a soothing caress meant to assuage her and quietly affirm a sense of trust in this.

It had been interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the distance, stopped within seconds.

Elsie flinched at the interruption, backing away from him as though burned. She wouldn't risk either his nor her position by being caught by someone shamelessly lurking about. And she couldn't stand being the cause of a scandal that revolved around him, not after everything he'd gone through.

"I––" But Charles' voice trailed off unexpectedly. And by the time she had recovered her senses, recognizing that there were better ways to handle this than backing away in fear, the man had firmly withdrawn into himself. Already, the butler had opened the door to the cellar, any previous emotion masked.

"Mr. Carson?" He ignored her call, her plea to talk about what just happened, "Mr. Carson, I do apologize––"

"No, Mrs. Hughes." The murmur was firm and aloof to say the least, the butler refusing to turn around and properly face her, " _I_ am the one who should be apologizing. It was deeply inappropriate to ensnare you in such a fashion –– please, forgive my actions."

Without another word, without another hint to the motivation behind his actions, he firmly shut the door behind him and left her alone. Left her to realize whoever had been nearby was long gone and that she had just made a rather large mistake.

It'd taken Elsie only three seconds to recover from the shock. Another two to become _infuriated_ with herself for causing the man to shut himself away, and only one more to know what she needed to do:

Open the door, march down the stairs, and finally explain herself.

And, yes, that explanation could be given through words or something more tangible, if it meant Charles truly understood.

Because, _there'd been no 'ensnaring', you daft man._

Her hand firmly gripped the door as she proceeded to take to those stairs once again, having long since opened it.

_Nothing of the sort._

He looked devoted to ignoring her as much as he could, stiffening at the sound of the sound of her approach. Already, he'd made it off the steps and into the cellar itself. Well, she'd certainly show him just what she thought of the situation, that he had nothing to apologize for. She'd also certainly make sure she was understood, that he realized why she'd flinched. She'd been confused about all of this before, hadn't known what to say or how to address it. But none of that mattered anymore: she knew the truth––

"Charles!"

How Elsie had managed to be the one stumble after all this time, she would never know.

That she had stumbled, that he was now whirling around in horror too far away for her to reach, _that_ was all she had for knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I did have to deliver one proper cliff-hanger before wrapping this beautiful story up! We're only a chapter or two away, I promise.
> 
> In any case, 'till the next update. And, as always, have a lovely day!


	9. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** **Thank you so very,** ** _very_** **much for your support and patience with this.** I am pleased to say that the wait is over –– this is the _final_ chapter. It is lengthy and (because it's me) it's very "full-circle"y. Therefore, you may want to take some time with each segment. If it helps, consider them to be mini-chapters of their own.
> 
> Also, I tried my best to interweave all the requests from before. I really hope, whether you requested anything or not, you enjoy this final installment of this little tale.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** As per usual, I don't own _Downton._ And, as always, **liberties will be taken one final time!**

Even had he not been so terrified, Charles wouldn't have found any form of amusement at the sight of Elsie quite literally _bouncing_ down the last three steps, somehow landing sat on the floor as though she intended the whole thing. As it stood, horror had shoved him toward her throughout this entire debacle, needing to confirm that she was–– that she was––

That she was not currently laughing, a subtle and pained undertone vibrating through the chuckle.

"Mrs. Hughes," It was cold enough, formal enough, to halt all sounds of mirth, "This is _not_ funny."

"Charles," She challenged, the intimacy in her voice enough to temporarily quell the man, "It's funny. This is the silliest tumble I've ever taken; laughter is fitting for the situation."

So much for quelling the man; now he looked fit to give a stern lecture on the subject.

"I _never_ want to see you in that position again." He adamantly stated, clearly not finished with recovering from the experience. Truly, he might never let her help him in the cellar ever again, especially if it avoided this. "Promise me you'll never put yourself in this position again!"

"Am I to take it there's another position you'd prefer?" Elsie archly asked, initially oblivious to the insinuation. When the unintentional promiscuity finally struck the woman, she found her gaze quickly avoiding his –– ignoring the fact that his jaw had long since dropped at the risqué comment. She herself remained flustered over her own unintentional impertinence, hurriedly continuing, "Nevermind that!" And, uninterested in seeing the horror that had to be lurking about his face, she composed herself and feigned more calmness than she felt, "While I'd prefer not to experience this pain again, Charles, I can't make that promise."

"Why not?"

This time, her sigh held no real bite to it. She was even coaxing her eyes into gazing at him, determined to persist in speaking this truth while meeting his confused stare:

"Because you're far too important to me." And before he could even think to argue, "You are worth this and _much_ more."

He was confused by her, that was something she could see that plain as day. He probably even thought her fall did more damage than either of them realized. Unsurprisingly, she was right: Charles Carson was indeed of the belief that the woman before him wasn't in full possession of her faculties right now. No, no, that wasn't right. He knew she was in full possession, she was just utterly confusing him. With the level of pain that must be throbbing through her, why would she dare to _laugh_ about this? Why would she crack such jokes, take everything so lightly?

But those wasn't the most pressing questions for the man. No, his real questions were these: if he was supposedly worth this pain and discomfort, why did she flinch away in the corridor? Why did she avoid him when it was clear what his intentions were?

"But," Unbeknownst to the man, his tentative tone had her heart dropping, "What about before? When you'd–– when you'd," His pained words were far sharper than any fall. "When you had flinched."

This time, she didn't sigh and she didn't shake her head in disbelief.

She merely kept on looking at him and tried her best to regain her bearings.

"You misunderstood me, Charles." And it was no surprise that he did, all things considered. Mind, he could've waited for an explanation instead of fleeing from sight. But that was neither here nor there.

"Go on."

Well, at least she had a chance to explain herself. Next time, however, she would settle for safely making it down the steps instead of this fiasco, "I hadn't backed away because I didn't want to kiss you."

"No?"

"No." Elsie affirmed, shoving aside any pain she could to get the words out. If she hissed or winced at anything coursing through her veins, he would be convinced she was secretly overwhelmed and she'd lose any credibility, any chance for elaboration. "I had backed away because I didn't want to imagine what toll your reputation would've taken if we'd been spotted."

He looked perturbed by this, so much so she might've been amused if she weren't battling these painful aches and his own stubbornness. As it stood, she could only thank her lucky stars she had bounced gracelessly instead of something far worse.

"Don't you care about your own reputation?"

_Honestly!_ Arching an eyebrow at him, "When I know how society looks upon women in these cases?" She shook her head in exasperation, "At the very least, I could give _you_ a chance to avoid the scandal."

The man had a response for that, would've uttered his own opinion on the matter. He had his own thoughts about reputations and scandal, thoughts that'd been building each and every moment for the last seventy-one days of his life. He wouldn't say anything, not yet.

And certainly not when she clearly had more to say.

"But, Charles," Regardless of what else may occur, she herself never would regret sharing this. This confession wasn't brought on by the pain or the shock; this admission had only been prompted by the experience. "If I had my way, we would have _much_ more than a kiss. A life together, if you're willing together."

It was a bold statement she uttered.

But it was the truth.

"Do you mean that, Elsie? Do you _really_ mean that?"

She held out her hands for him to take, to help lift her off the steps and properly affirm that, "I do."

Charles grasped both hands in seconds, coaxing her body to follow his lead in this instance. But, even as the distance shrank between them, even as his heart began to soar at this tender declaration, his ears snatched the sound of a tell-tale hiss and his eyes clutched at the sight of her trying to hide pain. "Dr. Clarkson should look you over the moment we get you upstairs."

"I doubt this is something we need to concern Dr. Clarkson with." When he glanced in confusion, never knowing the woman to take any injury lightly, he found her to be surprisingly tight-lipped.

"Elsie?" But his worry would not inveigle a response this time; she only shook her head in silent disagreement. And though she was known as a stubborn and strong-willed woman, he didn't think she'd be this obstinate about the matter.

"At most, I've only bruised myself,"

"If our roles were reversed, you would be dragging me to Dr. Clarkson this very instant––"

"And the bruises are in an area that," Elsie blushed, unable to help herself. It was one thing to talk about a life together with the man, it was another to admit this fact that was a little too flustering all things considered, "That I would feel uncomfortable with Dr. Clarkson examining."

_Now_ Charles was outright confused. But, after a moment, he noticed how her eyes glanced down to the area in question before looking at him meaningfully. He didn't quite understand then and there that the contusions in question mostly, if not completely, surrounded her backside. Of course, once he did understand that, there was a great deal of sputtering and ignoring unbidden images, the man needing a moment to compose himself.

In short, his mind's wandering thoughts were pulling him in quite the mortifying direction.

"Right. Well, we ought to get you sitting down and resting as soon as we can,"

"I hardly think _sitting down_ is the appropriate response, Charles, given the situation!" He winced and she herself looked away for fear of revealing a flustered face, "Why don't we finish with the wine and go from there?"

Truthfully, he'd forgotten all about why they'd ventured to the cellar in the first place. That they'd been on a mission to fetch tonight's wine selection. Although he'd rather send her on her way to the good doctor, her continued refusal and his desire to keep her within sight for as long as he could –– that fall had petrified him far more than he would _ever_ admit –– meant that he had no real argument for her continued presence.

Nevertheless, as they both settled back into this routine, the pair seemingly content to act as though nothing had happened, he couldn't help but think over her words. That idea of a life together. They would take their time with that life, no doubt, and he wasn't entirely sure if she meant a life together in the fullest sense of the word.

But as his thoughts wandered from the tonight's wine selection back to her, his eyes eventually drifted, too. His hand, having been outstretched to inspect a bottle, hovered in mid-air. They had been awfully close to yet another misfortune, one that would've no doubt been his fault and one that would taunt him for ages had it been worse. And yet she remained by his side, she persisted in staying with him and even confessed that she'd like to do a lot more than simply stay.

How had he become so lucky?

And why, when they should be in the midst of another duty, did he want to set all of that aside and confirm that she was truly all right?

Well, at least that second question was easily answerable: it was one thing to hear someone say as such. It was another thing to confirm it for one's self, to see that things were legitimately fine.

So, perhaps, that's why his hand hesitated when it came to completing the task at hand. Perhaps that was why he was quietly asking for permission to cup her cheek, permission that was unswervingly given as she leaned into his touch. More simply, perhaps that was why he found his lips meeting her, the fear and pain subsiding for them both as this kiss deepened with no interruptions in sight.

_Three Hours After The [Second] Incident_

"I understand that it may be a little," Charles felt rather incompetent for coming up with nothing better than, "Awkward to discuss the matter, but I'm not sure if it can be helped."

"Can you now?" Elsie was frankly irritated that he persisted in this line of questioning, wanting the subject left well alone.

"Yes, well," At least the man was as uncomfortable as she, "What if you've not only bruised yourself? If Dr. Clarkson is the only one in the Village who'd know for certain, who'd be able to confirm anything. Surely, then, it would be necessary to–– to––"

This was sounding far too much like a meeting she'd had with the good doctor years ago now. And though she felt some sympathy for the butler, much like she had with Richard Clarkson, she would not be helping him out.

"Right." Charles started again, still grappling with his own discomfort. Nevertheless, he adamantly held to his belief, "We're not really sure if it is only bruises. We've agreed there looks to be no broken bones, no blood, but the pain you've experienced is concerning, Elsie. And though I'd hate to put you in a tricky position, I'd hate to hinder your recovery merely because it's a little… 'awkward'."

Oh, why did this sound so _painfully_ familiar after all this time?

Not in the mood to quibble anymore, "Fine. But, I'm not to be blamed for whatever he has to do to 'confirm' the matter."

"What do you mean?"

She gave a mirthless chuckle, fixing him with a certain look, "How exactly do you think he's going to have to go about this?"

Elsie gave him a quarter of a minute to comprehend. Fortunately, her man only needed half the time, "Right. Perhaps we ought to hold off from asking Dr. Clarkson just yet."

Yes, well, she knew if the matter persisted –– which, her gut felt it would –– he'd no doubt be sending her off to another meeting with the doctor soon enough.

Which was, naturally, exactly what happened.

A meeting that was, unsurprisingly, as clumsy and awkward as the last one.

_Twenty-Eight Days After The [Second] Meeting_

Dr. Clarkson had indeed confirmed her own diagnosis. As such, when she finally recovered from the bruises, she was ready for anything. So when this sweetly peculiar request came forth, when this unorthodox suggestion was raised, she was all for it.

"So, I hear you wanted help with the Servants Ball?"

Charles had been initially hesitant to ask Elsie for help in this matter. Still was, in all honesty. Officially, the man had stated he wanted to avoid creating any unnecessary insinuations or rumours if they were found out, something she acknowledged as a valid concern. It wouldn't do to cast suspicions on them before they were ready to announce anything –– if there was indeed anything to announce other than a budding relationship.

But, that was another story altogether.

And none of it was exactly the real reason behind his hesitancy.

To be rather candid, he didn't want to see Elsie dancing with someone else. Even if that someone else was a young man who could've been his son in another life, there was something about it all that threw him for a loop. He also didn't want her to risk injuring herself again. But seeing as how Dr. Clarkson had confirmed there were only bruises to contend with from her fall and she'd already recovered just fine, there was no real reason to bring that matter up.

Which was why they were here in his pantry, the trio having discreetly stayed downstairs until everyone else had gone to bed.

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes." William Mason may have been working at Downton for years, may have attended the Servants Ball a few times already, but he was never happy with his dancing capabilities. Add to that that a certain kitchen maid was enamoured with Thomas Barrow, a capable dancer in his own right, and William really wanted to show that he could dance well enough. That he was good enough to give Daisy a dance lesson or two of his own, maybe even sneak in a dance with her at the ball if he was lucky enough.

Problem was, and this was no exaggeration: he had two left feet. And though Mr. Carson had promised that Mrs. Hughes was brilliant at dancing, William had little faith in himself. He loved the ball and the idea of it all, but he always found himself to be a better pianist than dancer.

"Well now," Elsie brought herself more fully into the pantry, smiling warmly at both William and Charles. Although it was a tighter fit to dance in here than the hall, the footman had only agreed to lessons so long as they were out of plain sight. She wanted to acerbically point out that anyone wandering downstairs at this hour, late though it may be, could easily look into the pantry if they wanted to. However, upon realizing how serious William's request was and how nervous he was about the situation, she'd refrained from doing so. Instead, "Shall we get started?"

And so they did.

At first, after checking and correcting his positioning, the housekeeper had started them off by intoning a steady beat, not requiring music to keep an official tempo. While the pair tried out a few steps and started to give it all a go, the butler watched on –– keeping an eye so as to see where William might need a little help.

As it turned out, William needed a little help all around. He was eager enough when it came to picking up the craft and refining it for himself, but eagerness was not enough. And after counting off a tempo didn't look to be of much assistance, they switched to humming a familiar waltz. However, the hope that he would be able to follow a tune more easily was soon dashed.

"Perhaps a demonstration might help?" Because Charles was all for allowing the boy to try out the waltz on his own. But, if it continued to dampen William's spirit as well as crush Elsie's feet in the process then the man was not opposed to giving the boy a break.

"I think that might be for the best, Mr. Carson." William confessed, looking far more downturned now than he had forty minutes ago. "We might even be better off just stopping altogether."

"We will not be 'stopping altogether', thank you," It was always refreshing to hear Elsie speak like, to carry such a vibrantly resolved tone, "Though, I do agree that a demonstration might help. Mr. Carson, if you would be so kind?"

That was when Charles realized that _he_ would be the one doing the demonstration.

Not only that, but that he would be providing this demonstration with _Elsie_ as his partner.

It wasn't that he was bothered with the idea of dancing with her. Not in the slightest. Instead, it was more of a concern that he might not be able to contain his delight at finally dancing with the woman after all these years. That, even though a subordinate would be witnessing this moment _and_ it was meant to be nothing more than a demonstration, he might reveal his true feelings on the matter and give everything away before they were ready.

"Mr. Carson?" The man refused to mentally curse at his incapability to focus, not having realized how much time had passed since the question was first put to him.

"It would be an honour, Mrs. Hughes." Without another word, he gestured for William to trade places. And after only a few more seconds, he was taking his place in front of the woman at last. "May I have this dance?"

"You may."

Elsie had to resist the urge to shiver as his right hand deftly reached through the air to lightly rest on her waist. When his other hand extended out and gracefully brought them into the proper starting position for the waltz, her breath did catch. It was subtle, a tender whisper that dissipated within seconds, but it happened.

They had never had this pleasure, this _honour_ , in all these years together.

Something both individuals were well aware of, whether they remembered it or not.

"Shall we then?"

Somehow, it felt different to offer this request to Charles. It felt as though this was much more than asking permission to dance, much more than a mere demonstration. The fact that William was in the room made her well aware that they couldn't linger in whatever _this_ was. This had her spine tingle, had her thoughts thinking of an intimate conversation shared in a cellar. It was different from their dalliances of late. Besides, could a seldom peck of the lips and the occasional chaste touch even be considered romance?

Still. Whatever _this_ was, Elsie wanted more.

"Yes."

And she had no doubt, judging from that look in his eyes, that he agreed.

_Fifty-Seven Days After The [Second] Idea_

"'Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union: perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near–– that knit us so very close! for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand…'"

Elsie listened in enraptured silence, resisting the urge to mouth along the words she knew so very well. Charles really had proven to be quite the story-teller; in fact, this was to the point where they'd agreed this little book club would have to continue.

Specifically, the agreement was that the next book they'd read together would be one of his personal favourites, though she wasn't privy to the selection just yet. Nevertheless, whether she knew what the novel was or not, she was determined to be the one to read it aloud, to have the pleasure of reading to him.

It felt only fair to switch between the two, to let her read his favourites aloud while he verbally perused hers in turn.

And as the idea stood in this moment, seeing as how they were only a page or two from the ending of _Jane Eyre_ –– the lovely experience having lasted about four months in total –– she felt deeply humbled by the whole thing. She had known his original opinion of the novel. That it had tenderly altered, that it had willingly changed in only months, meant the world to her. That he added more and more life into his reading the further they continued, his timbre an especial delight to listen to in this fashion, only added to her contentment. And that she would soon have the chance to read _his_ favourites, to share in his own literary treasures?

"'"Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!"'" Had she really slipped into her reverie that much? Had she really missed the rest of the ending? Granted, she wasn't the biggest fan of St. John Rivers. And seeing as how his story did end the novel, it made some semblance of sense that she hadn't been entirely focused. Still, she had wanted to enjoy these last few pages with her man as much as possible.

Charles closed the book with a sense of finality, looking it over, " _That_ was quite the ending."

"Indeed." Except she wasn't entirely focused on the ending. Rather, her mind had ventured to other thoughts. Thoughts that had trickled into her mind from the very beginning of this experience. Thoughts that'd risen to her attention when she'd fallen and pressed into her ever since they danced together.

"Is everything all right?"

Elsie refrained from smiling, knowing she could be frank and didn't have to reassure him or make everything better. She could simply respond with the truth: "There's something that's been on my mind. Something I thought I didn't need an answer to. But that's not really true, is it?"

All thoughts of _Jane Eyre_ were firmly placed aside, quickly tucked within the pages of the book, "Go on."

"Well," There was no delicate or easy way to put this inquiry. Not that she normally cared for either tactic, except this was a sensitive subject and she cared too much for Charles to be tactless. Yet it looked like that tactlessness was what she would have to settle for, "I was only wondering–– well,"

"Yes?"

"Well," Elsie repeated faintly, nothing appropriate coming to mind. "I was wondering," _Oh, get on with it, girl,_ "How exactly did you come to believe we were married?"

Whatever he'd been expecting, _that_ had not been it.

Though, really, he shouldn't have been surprised. Had she been the one to lose her memories, had he been in her shoes, that question would have undoubtedly been on the forefront of his mind from the beginning. That she hadn't already asked, that she'd tried her best to come to terms with it on her own, only warmed his heart to an indescribable degree.

"I don't know." Charles really didn't, never having been able to figure it out after all this time, "But to be honest, I think it's what I wanted, how I felt about it and what I imagined life could be. "

If the man had to guess, his thoughts during the fall had probably been centered around her at some point or another. He might've been regretting the fact that he'd undoubtedly never shared his feelings, never asked what she felt for him. His mind might've even gone so far as to taunt him with what could've been, sharing images and ideas he thought he'd never see. And perhaps that was why he'd woken the way he had, thinking they were married.

However, that was only supposition.

And, there was something else to consider, another point to be made.

"But that's the thing. It was all _my_ imagination, Elsie." She looked at him again, her gaze having been settled on the floor. "A life together should be made from _our_ imagination. It should be on our terms." He paused, wanting that sentiment to ring, needing her to understand he meant everything, "And if we need some to think about what that life together means, I am more than happy to give it."

_And **that** , I promise._

This brought a smile to her lips, her original sense of doubt ebbing away the more she absorbed his words. She knew for sure now that he wouldn't push them to be anything more than what _they_ wanted to be, not that she ever thought otherwise. And though she still didn't know exactly what that meant for them, she did know that she was willing to hold to this unspoken vow and keep going, together.

_Forty-Three Days After The [Second] Promise_

Today marked the sixth time the housekeeper had stepped into an unusually tidy sitting room, knowing fully well her space had not been this organized when she'd left it last night. No, there was only one explanation for why everything was exceptionally put-together today.

_Impossible man,_ Elsie thought with a smile. Yes, well, he would find that his own pantry had become a bit more pristine, too, since he left it last night. He almost always managed to leave it completely tidy, but there was usually at least one thing that could be improved upon.

Really, one day they'd end up crossing paths and she would have a hard time resisting the urge to chuckle at her hopeless liar's attempts to escape explanation.

But for now, Elsie would accept these little efforts as is.

Accept them and inwardly smile to herself, wondering what would be next.

There had already been numerous walks. Walks and half-days spent wherein it was only just the two of them, no expectations of who they had to be in sight. All there needed to be was meaningful conversation and the willingness to traverse together; if kisses were stolen and hands were held, those were wonderful bonuses.

And then there was her work. Moments like today. Incidences wherein she'd discovered a menial task had been effortlessly taken care of before she had to face it. When she found her space unusually tidy even though she'd been bogged down by work for days –– unable to think of cleaning anything when there was so much to be done.

There was never a note. Nor did he ever mention it in their conversations. All he wanted was to ease her burden and demonstrate that he would be on her side, regardless of where that was.

If she felt the same, if she started to do the same for him, that was entirely her choice.

Eventually all of those little moments, all the little talks that tended to accompany them, had soothed any fears far away. Had shown him she was just as serious as he. Had given her enough time to understand the depth of conviction behind his sentiment, something she'd already begun to grasp that fateful night in the pantry.

It was enough to give her hope for them.

And it would become enough to get them both through these trying days.

_Three-Hundred-and-Fifteen Days After The [Second Round of] Efforts_

They refrained from talking about the fact that, though the Servants Ball was approaching, William was unlikely to want any dance lessons with this war was on. Nevertheless, he might want to dance again, that he might want to improve himself once again and keep up the practice.

That was why they were here again, practicing familiar steps and pretending it was all for William.

There would be no mentioning how this is the first time he's held her in his arms since July, how she's finally _properly_ breathing for the first time since His Lordship's chilling announcement. How these brief moments spent swaying away here gave them a fighting chance to forget about everything for another few seconds. That this could ease grief off their shoulders for a spell, that these were the precious minutes they didn't need to be a rallying team maintaining impossible standards, determined to carry on in spite of the draining, daily news of the world.

The swaying eventually ceased, but the dance never ended. They remain embraced. There was no movement, other than a breath that fought to remain steady and the occasional shudder of relief that they could be here, that there weren't any battles needing to be fought here. There may have been an incessant fear in the air, a continual semblance of weariness and dismay hanging over the house, but all of that disappeared here.

Dancing shifted, turning to pure entanglement. Nothing too risqué for an unmarried couple, but nothing terribly chaste. That was not what they need today. They needed relief, unity in every sense of the word. They needed to let go of standards that helplessly plunged further and further into the ground, they needed to escape the dreadful atmosphere continuing to seep further into the house.

Entanglement lead to questions. _Can we take those steps forward, those steps we once spoke of? Do we have that right with everything going on? Should we dare to try to lead a life filled with happiness when the world is plummeting into darkness, into its own abyss?_

_Yes._

_Five-Hundred-and-Ninety-Six Days After The [Second] Conversation_

Elsie Hughes had been whittling at the rotas for what felt like the millionth time when it happened. She wished she could say she was truly distracted by her work these days, but the truth was that work had lost some of its appeal over the course of these last two years. Or, rather, something else –– _someone_ else –– was far more appealing than paperwork, cleaning inspections, and all the typical tasks that fell to the housekeeper. And married life was, contrary to what she had repeatedly informed all of her maids all these years, something that could be just as fulfilling as her career.

To the point wherein she felt extraordinarily lucky to have the chance to experience both.

There had been no true arguments from the Crawleys when the pair had announced their plans, especially once they had stated that marriage did not equate to retirement –– something Lord Grantham looked to be rather relieved by, if she were to be honest. It helped that the Great War meant some traditions could be set aside, such as unmarried senior staff. And though there had been an initial wariness from certain individuals, both in the Village and at home, about whether or not the butler and the housekeeper were capable of remaining as faithful to their work as they were to each other… that wariness had long since dissolved by the end of that first year.

Something that _she_ felt relieved by, if she were to be even more honest. Wariness wouldn't have stopped her from attending church to hear the banns read. Nor would it have kept her from finally uttering those vows on that wonderful spring day. No, any wariness from others had long since been soothed away by everything he did for her.

But it hadn't hurt when the judgment went away. The scathing, supposedly subtle looks as she went about her errands. The whispers that would stop the moment they'd stepped into sight. The glances from particular members of the family –– glances that swept past idle curiosity and bordered on aloof presumption….

An unusually distracted knock struck her door, convincing her to step away from her reverie and fully concentrate on the situation at hand. Once she felt she could at least feign focus she bade whoever it was into the room, still glancing over the papers in front of her. Really, she would much rather be enjoying a little time with a certain someone in their lovely cottage than remain sat at her desk.

"Mrs. Hughes–– Elsie," If Charles was slipping into Christian names before the door was closed, if he was talking to her like _that_ , it was serious.

The papers dropped out of her hands, forgotten, landing haphazardly on the table as her eyes remained glued to the man, looking him over for any injuries. Seeing no blood, no limp, nothing explicit to merit a visit to Dr. Clarkson, she found herself wondering what on earth was going on. If he had come barging in here only to complain about the lack of standards now that the war was on, she would lose her temper. In fact, it was very possible that unless he was about to inform her the Germans were invading Downton's steps –– his face wouldn't be this ashen nor would he have verbally slipped if he wasn't in shock over something monumental –– she _would_ lose her temper for scaring her like that.

"Elsie," Charles repeated, taking another stumbling, grave step into the room, "I remember."

At the sound of those three words, words she'd given up on hearing about two years ago, the woman froze. Remained stuck in her spot as the world threatened to sway around her, as that phrase persistently floated around her. She couldn't do anything but gape at him as hundreds of questions, thousands of queries, sprang to mind. The man himself looked to be in a state of stupefaction, managing another step or two before deciding the best course of action was to remain still.

"You remember?" Elsie repeated, dumbfounded to say the least. This was nothing like the Germans making it to England. Yet she found herself floored, much more than any war proclamation would've brought.

"I remember." Charles intoned, needing her to be the first one to know. He himself was still bowled over by the fact that it'd happen in the first place.

Something had tickled his mind, incessantly prodded him into venturing near the cellar. He'd been wrapped up in reminiscing about a certain someone in a lovely cottage, having inadvertently made his way to the front of the cellar's entrance before he knew it.

And then it truly began.

But, of course, he had been oblivious at the time.

Those old memories tugged at him once more, persuading him to open the entrance and step inside. And when he did, when he finally crossed the threshold this time, he still found himself distractedly thinking Elsie more than anything else. He didn't know why he was humouring this unplanned adventure into the cellar, having long since accepted that his memory would never truly come back––

_That_ was when it hit him. That was when he nearly fell again, the images that flooded his vision threatening to knock him over. There had been inklings before, conversations and flashes he couldn't fully catch. Today was different. _All_ the faces of those forgotten ten years swirled around him, every step taken threatening a new crescendo of recollection. And every attempt to move, whether it was to escape this cellar or not, gave way to even more.

" _I don't think we need to inform Papa of this particular accident, don't you agree, Carson?" "Quite right, milady."_

Charles winced, instinctively knowing where that particular smashed vase had wound up, the secret location having been buried in his mind for quite possibly twelve years. That Mary Crawley, the one who carried a similar poise to today's version but was far more mischievous, was battling. Battling with today's version of the aristocrat, determined to prove how she was worthy of being recalled.

He didn't want any battles, he didn't need to recall anything. He only wanted some form of peace.

But that was not meant to be.

" _Mr. Carson, I'd like to introduce you to Miss Anna Smith. She's the one who's applied for the position of…" Charles had looked up from his desk to discover a fascinating mixture of shyness and confidence standing beside Elsie, surprised to see that he could already tell the woman would be perfect for any job at Downton. Discretion rested in her demeanour, innate trust radiating in her eyes, and the sense that she would dutifully perform any task requested of her was clear as day. They would still have to examine her references, of course, and properly interview her. But he already knew what his thoughts were._

So _that_ was his first impression of Anna –– not that he really needed that confirmation. The woman had proven herself as competent and capable as he initially perceived, being the soul of discretion whenever they needed it. Shaking his head to clear that away, the man turned away and saw a flash of silver in the distance, helpless to the scene now spinning around him. It seemed no part of his thoughts were to be left untouched.

" _But, how did you memorize the spoons so quickly, Mr. Carson?" It had been an autumnal day, judging from the outside_ _world. And they had possibly been working together for at least a year by the time the footman had finally put forth the question, if memory served right. "I'm glad you asked, William. Now, if you'll allow me to_ _demonstrate…"_

Charles had managed to escape the cellar but to no avail: the memories continued to swoop into his thoughts, overtaking anything that stood in their path. Spoons were now scattered before him, spoons and a young man who was determined to take on so much. This was nostalgia dipped in dread, a feeling that would be worsen when another chill overcame him, the trails of the next recollection feverishly slinking across his mind.

" _You don't mean to tell me you are a_ _ **fan**_ _of_ Jane Eyre, _Mrs. Hughes? With all that gothic drivel? I would've thought a woman of your character wouldn't sink to such literary depths, if it can even be considered literature!"_

_  
That_ had been a particularly awful retort, one he suspected he'd regret for the rest of his days. She'd pretended to take the barb in stride, never once revealing how much his words had to have stung. And though he had somewhat redeemed himself by going on to say that its gothic quality wasn't all that terrible, by reading the novel itself, he very much doubted any of it was a legitimate redemption.

" _Mr. Carson, don't you agree that the cook is more suited to the storage key than the housekeeper?" Red hair fiercely blocked his path, ignoring the auburn tresses glaring the pair of them. "Well, it's not really my place to say, Mrs. Patmore––" Said tresses curtly turned to the cook: "That's what I told Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Carson!" But red hair refused to budge,"You mean to tell me that..."_

Groaning now at the incessant onslaught –– truly, was remembering those fights necessary? Of all the things to conjure up! –– the man forced himself to fight through the hallucinations and make his way to safety. He did his best to look past the haze of individuals that had once passed him in these halls, the shadows of existence that they now were. None of these individuals were truly here, none of them existed in this moment. But that knowledge didn't stop anything. All he saw now was anything that had lurked past him at some fleeting moment in time, people of varying ranks and classes. And if they kept skulking about his vision, their voices and movements all blurring together to distort the lines of retrospection and reality, he might honestly lose his mind.

" _There's something about Thomas, Mrs. Hughes, something I can't quite put words to but I don't like." The dark-haired man had been around for some time now, but there was still something about him that the butler didn't care for. Yet it seemed his friend was of a different opinion, "Thomas, Mr. Carson? It's O'Brien I'm more concerned about!"_

Ah, yes. Thomas Barrow. A character he no longer had to contend with, thank the Lord. Not that he would be saying as such with the war on. Still, Elsie had been right when she said there was something about Sarah O'Brien to be concerned about. He doubted they'd ever find out just what that was, but he knew she was spot on in her assessment. Luckily, this was one of the lighter conversations slamming into him at the present moment, giving him some sort of chance to breathe and come to a stop –– needing any respite he could get.

Little did he know, the discombobulation was far from over.

" _So, has it all been settled?" She stood before him, unusually timid with that frustrating habit of hers, that supposedly subtle lip-biting that really wasn't all that discreet. He didn't like her like this. He didn't like any of this. "No, I don't know if anything's been settled. There's a fellow in Manchester with claims to the title I gather. But it's all a long way from settled."_

Matthew Crawley. That other way she would suggest only seconds later. The suppositions she'd echoed over the course of these last two years in her own fashion, her wary ponderings that had begun to slip out of existence only recently.

But she had changed.

And so had he.

And with these tormenting newfound realizations now coming to light, they would hopefully keep on changing together.

Pushing himself away from the wall, not having noticed he'd been leaning on it for half a minute, Charles compelled himself to keep going. If nothing else, seeing her again as she was today might help to dispel this nightmare, might bring him back to reality.

_Seven Minutes After The [Second] Return_

"Charles?" Elsie knew that this wasn't a joke or some sort of prank, that the man was being entirely serious. Still, she didn't want to endlessly beat around the bush. She wanted to know what exactly he meant –– did he remember _everything_? And whether or not it was everything, how much did this change him?

Something the woman had begun to stop fearing was the concept of Charles recovering his memories and realizing that this was all a mistake. Or, at least, she thought she'd quashed that fear right in its tracks. Now, with his pallor that ghastly shade of shock and his clear disconcertion she was beginning to doubt herself.

"Charles?" Elsie repeated, steeling herself to be content with whatever came forth. They had an exceptionally wonderful time these last few years. There'd been fights and frustration, it's who they were as people, but none of that mattered when it came to their life together. And, whatever it was he was about to suggest, whatever it was he felt he needed to do, she would do her best to respect it.

"I remember the fights about the storage key." _What?_

Elsie stumbled in confusion, having been on the verge of standing up when he finally spoke. Why were they talking about the storage key _now_ of all times? It was distracting to say the least.

"And I'm sorry I once thought this, but _Jane Eyre_ is not 'gothic drivel'. It's a novel that should be considered literature –– something I was far too foolish to recognize at the time."

This had the woman further startled, stilling her into another round of silence as that old conversation reared its ugly head again. That had been a particularly discomfiting evening, one that would have bordered on the vexing had she not been so discomposed by his words.

Charles took a step toward her, ropes of apology weaving into his own shock as she began to meet him halfway, the pair trying to cross through the enigmatic atmosphere. For him, it was a matter of setting the record straight, if nothing else. For her, she simply wanted to know what all this meant.

"And," Her heart braced itself for another decade-old confession, not knowing what on earth would be next, "I've _never_ wanted to work in a shop or factory."

Elsie's eyes widened at this, not having ever expected this confession. He couldn't possibly be talking about _that_. Too stunned for words, she distractedly took another step forward, wondering if there'd be more.

There was.

"Children have crossed my mind on occasion," _Oh dear._ It had to have been too long for children at this rate, not that they'd ever discussed it. "But I wouldn't want children if it meant I had someone else for a wife."

The distance had vanished without their knowledge, hands reaching out, trembling arms embracing this disorienting intimacy. Nothing would distract the pair, not now. A bomb could have exploded in his Lordship's library and they would be none the wiser. A falling star could have slammed into the Abbey and they would have remained absolutely oblivious.

"And even though you said that farmer was a nice man, Elsie, even though you were flattered by his proposal, I can never describe to you how _relieved_ I was to hear you say that you had not accepted him. That life has altered you as it's altered me, that it has kept on doing so." _And that it will keep on doing so, if we let it._

Charles looked down at his wife, finally regaining peace of mind. Relief and delighted began to overtake him as the truth became clearer: everything had changed and yet nothing was truly different. He still had the chance to hold her in his arms like this. The shock that had him so very unsteady was withering the longer they were together. She was even going so far as to pull him in for quite the kiss to affirm the fact that she was right there with him in this relief, in this joy.

And all their wondering about the unknown –– what would happen if they ever reached today, what it would be like to remember it all –– was finally able to come to an end.

They hadn't needed to wonder.

It had all worked out.

And it would continue to do so for the rest of their days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Once again, thank you all for reading, reviewing, favoriting, following, _all of it._ All of your support has helped in so many ways I cannot begin to properly describe.
> 
> As always, I really hope you enjoyed this and that, despite everything that's going on in the world, you get a chance to enjoy today. Because any form of the unknown can be scary. But the key is not to ignore it. The key is to acknowledge the unknown, acknowledge any fear or concern about it, and keep on living.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Note:** You can expect 3-5 day updates with this one! As of right now, I plan on this being fairly short (5-10 chapters, total). But, if you've any requests or suggestions, I'm more than happy to see about incorporating them (I only ask that we keep it in the K-T range, if only because anything above is definitely not my forte).
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this and have a lovely day!


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